Highway 9: Education Reform Act
by Director Denial
Summary: The biggest show in American television history is back for its ninth season, and everybody is going to get their chance in the spotlight whether they want it or not. This story has been discontinued. Please read my author's note for specifics.
1. Showtime

**Disclaimer:** The creative rights to the concept and characters of Battle Royale belong to its original creators. Any other corporations, organizations, or parties mentioned in this story, real or fictional, are not affiliated with the story or its author in any way. The movies, television series, songs, or any other art form referenced belong to their respective owners and/or creators. While the characters and any other plot element appearing within the limits of this story belong to the author, they are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author in no way intends to profit from this story in any way, shape, or form, nor is he responsible for any personal or property damages caused as a direct or indirect result of this story.

**Warning:** This story contains scenes that involve profanity, sexual themes, graphic violence and gore, character death, as well as references to various illegal acts within the locations that the story is set in including but not limited to use and/or abuse of alcohol, tobacco, drugs, and weapons. If you are offended or triggered by any of the above, the author advises you to stop reading and close the browser. If you insist on proceeding, the author takes no responsibility for any personal or property damages caused as a direct or indirect result of this story.

* * *

**Highway 9: Education Reform Act**

**

* * *

**

The Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale was the single most anticipated national event of the year, and attendance as always was off the charts. All the biggest stars were there. Politicians, movie stars, actors and actresses, singers, performance artists, authors and talk show personalities, models and athletes, comedians, radio DJs, all of them the household names in the United States. There were the people who mattered, the people who made real decisions in front of and behind the scenes; there were the people who didn't, the celebrities who smiled and glimmered at the audiences from behind big screens; then there were those who were rich enough to afford attendance.

And then there was the one person who watched from a private booth. Concealed from the rest of the audience, their identity was only known to those who worked for the game. At the end of the seventy-two hour mark (or however long it took for the cast to whittle down to the last man standing), they would be revealed as they stepped to the stage for their first post-game appearance, nearly a week after they had survived the Battle Royale as the sole winner.

It was supposed to be awesome. It was supposed to be glamorous. It was supposed to be the best damn show America has ever seen.

But it wasn't. All these people watching as the audience, they had no real idea what it had been like. The horrors that had happened to the fifty of them unfortunate enough to be caught up in the Battle Royale. None of them had any idea what it would be like. As the events of the game played out before them, they would cheer. They would applaud the glorified violence that went on. They would find their personal favorites and root for them until they were eliminated. As always.

Not this time. Come endgame, they've got something special planned for the audience. It wouldn't exactly be a crowd pleaser, if anything most of the attending celebrities would be horrified to see it play out before them. But then again, that was their purpose, wasn't it? Fuck with them as best as they could. _You wouldn't be the first to do that... yeah, next year around, we're going to royally fuck with the game._

This time, they would make a statement.

Next year, if they still decided to go through with the game... _well, we'd see what happens then, wouldn't we?_

The pistol weighed heavy in the pocket of the anorak, but it was concealed well enough that it remained undetected when the soldiers passed by earlier. _T minus seventy-two hours until it happens. Let's hope our little movement lasts that long..._

_

* * *

_

To put it simply, Battle Royale hadn't always been a television show. It started off as a survival program adopted from the Republic of Greater East Asia, as a means to instill fear and subsequently control in the youth population of the nation. It wasn't until Japan started televising its games and they caught note of how well the ratings and merchandise revenue had been. At that time, the Program hadn't been exactly publicized; officially it was classified as a military research project, and while there was initial opposition from those in the know, the masses remained ignorant of the Program's proceedings. There were those who voiced that televising the game as reality television could potentially cause massive unrest, but in the end the higher ups decided to follow through with that idea, and the third season became the first televised Battle Royale in American history.

And damn if it didn't work out beautifully. Though not without a lot of experience and the broadcast proved to be rather problematic, it was deemed a resounding success. Audience feedback was excellent, and the ratings had never been higher. Seeing the success of the first broadcasted Battle Royale, the higher ups decided to continue to televise the coming seasons.

Of course, the hype never went down (aside from the flop of season five, but that was to be expected) and it only got larger as seasons went past. Massively publicized and well endorsed by celebrities and corporations alike, the Battle Royale program quickly became one of the nation's best celebrated cultures.

But much of the work that went behind the broadcast went unappreciated. It wasn't easy, taking the footage of over sixty thousand cameras and putting together a reality show. It started off as grainy footage where you couldn't see much of what was going on the screen, but that improved with the passing seasons. Rather than closed circuit surveillance cameras that had been originally used, they installed state-of-the-art high definition cameras with built in motion sensors and a capability for manual control over three hundred and sixty degrees rotation to ensure footage of all action could be captured from the appropriate angles.

Then came editing. The higher ups wanted a live feed of the game to be aired at the same time as it went on, but that proved to be impossible. They couldn't predict where the action would be, they couldn't forecast which contestants would make it far, they couldn't anticipate the need for repair and maintenance as the game proceeded. As a result, the broadcast of the game turned out to be simply, for the lack of a better word, substandard.

And so it was decided. The game would proceed as usual, but the editing would come after the game had concluded. After a clear winner (or none in atypical cases, but that had never happened) was determined, and after all happenings in the game were documented for. It would be much simpler that way.

And, well, if anybody happened to disrupt the game, it wouldn't be difficult to liquidate the current cast and start over with alternatives before the feed got out.

* * *

Pvt. Missy Leland never intended to be involved with the Battle Royale program, but, well, simply put, things happened and she found herself assigned to escorting the winner of the ninth season of Battle Royale out of the game. One thing led to another and the next thing she knew, they had a personal recommendation that she be part of the team guarding the winner's booth at the grand show. It was a simple enough task by all means, standing at the door and sending away reporters before the winner's identity was unveiled. Her sidearm was more than enough to intimidate anybody curious enough to approach, and as it was, she found herself doing little other than to stand there. _At least you get to change shifts every six hours, poor bastard inside has to watch everything all over again. Man that must suck._

She looked up as the introduction music of the show blared loudly from the speakers. Amidst great applause (though she herself remained still for the most part), the host of the three day spectacle stepped up to the stage in a smart designer suit. A handsome man by most standards, Ryan Sterling looked over the vast sea of audience surrounding the stage as he flashed a teeth whitener grin.

"The biggest show in American television history is back!" he said powerfully, his voice fully amplified by the array of speakers around the arena. With this, the audience only cheered all the harder and noisier, many of them hopping up and down in sheer glee. Nearly all of the others were on their feet, hands in the air and screaming joyfully at the top of their lungs.

By contrast, the person inside the winner's booth was wholly silent. Of course, that was to be expected. Nobody in their right mind could be looking forward to a replay of the hell that they had endured. _Then again, if you manage to survive a Battle Royale, you've got to be a bit fucked in the head at least, yeah?_

The commotion settled only for the slightest bit as Sterling raised his hands and half-heartedly gestured for silence. Instead, he took that as the best he could get and continued with his opening speech, practically shouting into his microphone to be heard, "In the last season of Battle Royale, our very own Julie Winnfield defeated forty-nine other contestants for the title of Season Eight's winner."

He had to pause as the crowd's cheers reached decibels that were previously unexplored. High above all of them, teleprompters flashed to life, displaying the word 'SILENCE' in luminous red. That alone did not get the crowd to die down, but with a whole minute of patience (and strategically stationed armed soldiers moving in to inform those who still made noise), the arena finally became mostly quiet.

"She along with her predecessors sit here with us today," Sterling said as he gestured towards somewhere in the audience, rousing another bout of wild cheers, "in hopes of witnessing another winner's journey to join their ranks.

"And may I tell you, ladies and gentlemen," he said with a pause, "the cast of Season Nine do not disappoint us. Among us sits the sole survivor of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale."

Floodlights swiveled to light up the winner's booth, blinding her with a bright white light for the briefest of moments before the spotlight's interest moved on.

The focus returning to Sterling, he continued, "For those unfamiliar with Battle Royale, the premise of the game is simple. Fifty contestants from one high school senior class compete for the title of winner over the course of seventy-two hours – that's three full days for the mathematically challenged. During this time, they are to fight until one, and only one victor remains out of them all. To put it simply, it's a kill or be killed scenario."

"Only one survives to become the winner of the game. In these seventy-two hours, they will need all the smarts, skills, and luck they can get to outlive the other forty-nine."

He paused again, then continued on to say, "And I am pleased to say that Season Nine fought with such gusto it _almost_ brings shame to the previous seasons! In the upcoming seventy-two hours – and yes, the full seventy-two hours, our cast delivered the fight nearly to the very last moment – every single one of us present today will witness the bloodshed of the game."

As he spoke, flashes of the season's highlights appeared on the large screen behind him: a girl bound by silver duct tape struggling in the water around her; a large boy wielding a fire ax as he crashed through hallways; a terrified girl repeatedly thrusting a pair of scissors into a bloodied boy; an angered boy wrestling a pistol from a girl's grasp; two girls in a Mexican standoff as they kept their guns trained on each other; a girl flung off her feet as she took a shotgun blast in the mid-section; and other images too vague to decipher. In all of those shots, the faces of the contestants involved are kept strategically off screen to hide their identities before the game's broadcast began.

With the crowd hyped up nearly to the point of an uprising, he grins and starts into the iconic introduction of the series.

"I am Ryan Sterling, and on behalf of everybody behind the game..."

The screen flashes to the game's logo as the audience starts to go wild, many of them standing up with hands in the air.

"We bring you, the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale!"

The suspended teleprompters show the word 'APPLAUSE,' highlighted a brilliant green, but even before that the audience was already wild, yelling, cheering, shouting, screaming in complete hysterics. Still standing just by the winner's booth, Leland found herself overwhelmed for a moment as her entire world filled with nothing but deafening noise. Noise, applause, people clapping, cheers, screaming names, names that she recognized only by dead faces, more cheering, hoarse screaming, and the national anthem rising above the din. The arena was in such chaos that it was a miracle she even heard the first words from within the winner's booth.

"_Fucking game_..."


	2. Senior Prank

**Senior Prank

* * *

**

It was a miracle she could even reach three digits, but somehow she managed it. It took a fortunate spare that she didn't think she could pull off and an even luckier nine in the following ball that gave her the boost she needed, and by the time the last frame rolled around she was well into the hundreds. While that was no enormous feat on its own, to Alyssa Easton it felt like she had just pulled off the impossible. Bowling had never been her strongest sport, if anything she sucked quite a lot at it. The only reason she ever played was because her friends did and she didn't want to be left out, but this time... well, this time even the others could see she was doing exceptionally well.

"Good job, girl," Elijah Ricks commented as he scribbled down her final score on the score card. "That makes, what, a 112 if my math is right?"

"Yep, that's it," Jolene Spies said as she glanced at the score card and went over the calculation in her head. "No, hold on, that's a four in the second frame, makes it a 107 instead. Still impressive by your normal standards, Alyssa."

"Alright, my turn," Elijah said as he selected a bowling ball from the ball rack and weighed it in his hands.

Alyssa went back to the seats where the rest of her friends sat as she watched Elijah approach the lanes with an enthused look on his face. She plopped down next to Frank Greer and immediately reached for the bucket of curly fries that he held. Noticing her making a grab at his fries, Frank pretended to recoil and held the bucket just out of her reach.

"Whoa, whoa, you sure you want to eat this?" Frank said with a laugh. "You know what this stuff will do to your figure?"

"Just give it," Alyssa said in a good-natured manner. "This is the highest score I've ever gotten bowling, just think of it as a reward. Besides, Drake doesn't give a shit if I indulge myself in the pleasures of fast food on occasion."

With a playful slap on his shoulder, she took the bucket from Frank and picked out a particular strand that wasn't as covered in grease as the rest. As much as she didn't want to admit it, Frank was right. The food was unhealthy, and while she wasn't overly concerned about her weight, greasy food always messed hell with her complexion. At best it made her feel like she needed a good wash of the face, at worst it could start a fresh smattering of acne over again. _Drake doesn't say anything but he's gotta mind. You think he's just being nice when he says otherwise?_

_Ah well. A girl's gotta eat._

Taking bites out of the loops of curly fries as Elijah returned with a triumphant grin, apparently having scored well in his last frame, she watched as Gabby Rhodes stepped up to bowl next. Looking to start a conversation, she turned to Elijah and asked, "So what's gonna happen?"

Elijah looked as nonchalant as ever as he replied, "We finish this game, then head back for senior prank. Tomorrow's Grad Nite, but I don't have to tell you we're skipping that, right?"

"Yeah, better safe than sorry," Alyssa replied with a laugh that sounded the slightest bit uncomfortable. _Not that it does any good if we're selected, either way we're gonna end up captured if we're unlucky enough, right? You'd think he'd be smart enough to know these things are casted. But then again Grad Nite's just lame, so it's not like you're missing out on anything, eh?_

Gabby came back, and Frank went up next as he wielded a heavy bowling ball, swinging his arm with enough force to brain somebody if he wasn't looking out.

"Grad Nite's lame anyway," she repeated softly to herself. _Just wish Drake wouldn't go either. Sophie's going, Hank's going, looks like you're the only one not going. Not that you wouldn't see them after high school's over, but still it would have been nice to spend some time with the guys, eh?_

"What's that?" Gabby asked with an oblivious smile as she sipped from her cup of iced tea.

"Nothing, just thinking out loud," Alyssa said with a smile. Turning her attention back to the lanes as Frank scored a strike out that brought his score to the highest of the group, she gave him a thumbs up. _What's there to say, these people are your friends and like it or not you're with them to the end. Let's just hope this just works out fine in the end._

"Good game," she said with cheer as Frank returned to his seat and crammed himself a mouthful of fries. Unable to say much of anything with his mouth full, Frank simply flashed her a peace sign.

"It's almost time, guys, we gotta get going if we want to be back in time for senior prank," Jolene said as she gathered up the paper drink cups and snack boxes and prepared to dump them in the trash can nearby.

"So what are they planning to do, the old one-two-four?" Gabby asked as she handed her the empty drink cup.

"You'll see," Jolene simply said with a smile. "Somebody's gonna get real pissed off though, might even get a bunch of people in trouble if they ever figure out who orchestrated the whole thing. Not that they'll know anything if we don't spill."

As the five of them stood from their seats and left Amber's Lanes Bowling Alley with relatively high spirits, Alyssa couldn't help but let a smile come across her face. _Like it or not, these people are your friends, and you're stuck with them all the way to the end... That might not be such a bad thing, actually.

* * *

_

"So where are we heading?" Gabby asked from the front passenger seat of Elijah's 1984 Chevrolet Camaro, in which the five of them rode with considerable comfort. Elijah was driving, and his girlfriend Gabby was in the shotgun seat. That left the other three teenagers squeezed in the backseat, an arrangement that none of them was willing to complain about. While Frank's large frame took up the bulk of the backseat's space, Jolene and Alyssa could still fit in quite snugly on either side of him. Of the five of them, Gabby was the only one to wear a seatbelt, an act which Elijah seemed to have taken as an insult of his driving skills. _Better safe than sorry, isn't that what he says all the time?_

"Back to Malton High, we're gonna make a detour first though," Elijah replied. "Del and the rest of the guys are setting it up at the old bus yard."

"The bus yard, isn't that a bit out of the way?" Gabby asked with some skepticism. The abandoned bus yard used to serve as an outstation for the Coolidge Coach Lines in their grandparents' era, but since then had fallen out of use and had become more of a site for conducting whatever happenings the local teenagers needed to hide from plain sight, as well as a favored site for backyard wrestling when unused. More than all else it was a place where they could hang out without any fear of authority figures intruding upon them.

"It's the only place to set it up, it's not like they could have done it in their backyards," Elijah said without any further elaboration.

"So what's it anyway? I know you guys are really into the whole secrecy thing and all, but seeing that you'll probably get me involved in this, I'd like to know exactly what kind of shit I'll be getting into," Gabby said, a little disconcerted as they passed by what looked like a military jeep.

"It's not that big a thing, really," Frank offered. "You remember that school bus that went missing last month? Everybody thought the wino of a bus driver got so buzzed he crashed it somewhere in the outskirts and hightailed. Well, it wasn't exactly that. Del and his guys sneaked in one night, hot-wired it, and took it to the bus yard for a little remodeling."

"That's nuts!" Gabby couldn't help but exclaim. "What are they planning to do, drive a graffiti-laden bus around to the school and parade around?"

Looking at each other with shrugs, the three from the backseat replied, "Pretty much, yeah."

"You guys know how much trouble they'll be getting into?" Gabby said emphatically as she turned around the seat to address them. "It could get the lot of us suspended, or worse, expelled. We could lose our scholarships and all. This is some serious shit, they stole a fucking bus, that's theft and vandalism!"

"Look, you gotta stop being so tense, babe," Elijah said from the driver's seat. "Nothing's gonna happen to us, okay? Del's got it all under control, we're just gonna show up there and act like we don't know a thing about what happened, it'll be alright. We're not even involved with it, we just happened to witness it, didn't we?"

"We should get out of this," Gabby said as she got herself to calm herself down slightly, "I mean it, E, this isn't something we should be getting into."

Biting her bottom lip, she continued, "You guys remember what happened to Mandy Lorres? They say she took a fucking AK-47 clip in the face because she pissed off the guys in charge. Something like this could happen to us if we-"

Alyssa cut her off as she said, "Gabs, it's gonna be okay. We're the good kids, remember?"

Gabby didn't look so sure of that, but it got her to settle down. She still had a bad feeling inside, but looking at Elijah as he drove on, she kept the words from coming out. _This isn't good, you know that feeling, that feeling that something's bad, something's gonna go wrong. This won't end well, you know it, it won't end well, it never does. E doesn't get it, he thinks just because he's in charge, he thinks he's invincible. Nothing good will come out of this, I just know it._

Looking out the window and catching sight of another military jeep pass by in the opposite direction, Gabby could feel a foreboding sense of dread. It would not have been too late for her to get out of trouble if she decided to, but unfortunately for her she was too attached to her friends to do anything of the sort.

_Someday, somehow, these guys are gonna get you killed, you know that?

* * *

_

The bus yard was surrounded on all sides by chain-link fencing aside from where it had been torn down to serve as an entrance to the yard. In the middle of the lot was an engineering facility that also housed the staff canteen, while fueling points and a small-scale bus wash stood to the side. The bus yard served mostly as a parking lot, holding nearly two hundred abandoned Coolidge Coach buses. The majority of the buses were already derelict, many of them having been reduced to little more than hunks of rusty metal. Nobody really knew why the bus yard was abandoned or why nobody had taken care of the two hundred buses (_hell, it would've sold for a fortune even as scrap metal_), but they accepted it that way. To the younger generation of Malton, it just was.

Driving around the section chain-link fence that had been razed to make for an entrance, Elijah guided his car into the inner depths of the bus yard. On the way, they passed by Tyler Darnel and Kurt Vogel, who directed them towards the school bus that was being worked on by the teenage mechanics and engineers of Malton High.

"We're almost ready to go, better get ready if you want a seat," Tyler said as he tied an orange bandana around his face, "Del's getting pissed because there might be a chance the pigs are already on the scene, somebody probably ratted us out. Still gonna go through with this though, so jump on for the ride if you're interested."

"Definitely, man," Elijah simply replied as he maneuvered his car between two rows of abandoned vehicles. Looking to the rearview mirror, he caught sight of Gabby as she looked out the window with a strange look on her face.

Instead of voicing her bad feelings about the deal, Gabby had simply fallen silent, something which worried Elijah a great deal. Alyssa had said earlier that they were the good kids, but there was no question that Gabby was the only one who truly deserved the title. Class valedictorian and managing editor of the school's newspaper, she was the type everybody would see to succeed. Make the most out of high school, score herself a couple of scholarships, head to one of the Ivy Leagues, and live out the good old American Dream, those were her aspirations in life in that order. Something of this scale was never in her league, and while she had always gone along with their previous mishaps, she had never been really one to engage in any illegal act.

Still, she had gone along with them this last time, perhaps out of their friendship alone. And the only reason they even became friend was because of student union, aside from that they were people of two different worlds. _Make that five different worlds_, he mused as he considered the three people in the backseat. Yet these were the best friends he could ever hope for, go figure.

"You still worried 'bout this?" he asked as he parked his car next to a pile of deflated tires with a sudden jolt.

Broken from her trance, Gabby looked to her boyfriend with a look that spoke words he didn't need to hear to understand.

With a smile on his face, Elijah said gently, "It's gonna be alright, I tell you. One last time to screw around with the rest of the guys from high school, I mean these are people you're not gonna see ever again after you graduate. Just one more time, go out with a bang, you get me?"

"Yeah, I guess," Gabby said quickly as she opened the car door. Stepping out onto a layer of gravel and powdered rust, she took care not to trip over the metal detritus and closed the door.

Elijah got out of his car with the others, quickly beckoning them to where the school bus was being worked on by close to three dozen seniors, each of them putting the finishing touches on what looked more like an armored tour bus than a typical yellow school bus at this point. Its sides had been fortified with an array of metal plating, the windows sealed with chain-link fencing and stringed with loops of barbed wire. Attached to the top of the bus were two floodlights that shone down a bright white glare, quite unnecessary during daylight but certainly made it all the more impressive in the nighttime. Instead of a bumper, a snowplow had been welded to the front of the bus (how they managed to get their hands on a snowplow was anybody's guess).

"Myself, I'm more a fan of the original," Frank said, sounding mildly impressed, "but I gotta give them credit for doing a helluva job with it."

"Love the cow-catcher paint job," Jolene commented.

"We're all ready to load up, so if you want to join in on what could be the greatest and most disruptive senior prank since this god forsaken town's been founded, you better grab yourself a seat!" Leon Delgado spoke loudly and clearly into a megaphone, much to the glee of his fellow seniors. Nearly everybody shouted back in approval, and even Gabby gave a half-hearted cheer.

"So what's gonna happen, is it gonna be just a joyride around the school?" Alyssa asked as they made for the doors to the bus. It was quickly getting crowded, and not wanting to be left out, the group hurried towards the bus.

"Not if I got this right," Leon replied with a grin, "you just relax and watch, girl, we've got something going on. You'll see what happens."

"Come on, you don't want to miss out, do you?" Elijah asked as he grabbed Gabby's hand and pulled her onboard. Getting on the bus, they quickly found a pair of seats halfway to the back, and managed to get in before Tommy McLaren and Karen Holmes could.

"Oh, hey, you're welcome!" Tommy said loudly in evident annoyance, but followed Karen as they found another pair of seats elsewhere.

"Trust me on this, Gabs," Elijah said to his girlfriend without even acknowledging the other boy, "it's all gonna work out just fine. We're just here for the ride, we're not gonna get ourselves in anything bad, I promise you this."

"Hope so," Gabby could only say as she watched the bus fill up. Many of the seniors could not find a seat in the bus, and were instead crowding the aisle and grabbing onto the handrails for stability. _Jesus, there's, what, a hundred, give or take fifty? Man, this is gonna be huge. Maybe it's gonna okay, I mean they wouldn't get this many people into trouble, right?_

At the front of the bus, Leon kicked the bus into gear and started to drive it out of the bus yard. Slowly at first, the armored bus began to roll out from its parked spot. It wasn't accustomed to the weight of so many seniors on one single bus, but for some reason it still managed to move with considerable speed. Rounding a corner and rolling onto the roads, the senior students onboard cheered loudly to the tune of the music that blared out from its loudspeakers. _Down with the sickness, great song isn't it? Clinton would appreciate._

And so they set off, entirely oblivious to the events that would befall them in the next few hours.

* * *

The quadrangle at Malton District High School was not a usual hangout for the two girls, but the fact that more than half of the school's seniors seemed to be missing for the day made it a much more accommodating place than usual. There wasn't anybody else they recognized in particular, just a lot of juniors and sophomores taking advantage of the seniors' absence, but more than all else they were just glad that the school's most prominent cliques weren't around. While content in their own world, the pair knew they were not the most likeable girls in the school, a combination of wealth and isolation had made sure of that. Still, it was nice to be able to enjoy the reasonably nice weather while having lunch and chatting about whatever was on their minds.

"You know, on account of how tomorrow's the last day we'll ever see everybody and all, I'm thinking you absolutely have to tell me this," Brooke Hilton said as she daintily daubed her fingernails with clear lacquer, "who'd you hook up with given the chance?"

It was not a question that they hadn't asked each other time and again, but Gail Arquette still considered the question in all seriousness. Finally coming to a conclusion after several moments' thought, she answered thoughtfully, "Well, Rick's pretty hot, and Kurt Vogel's got that whole bad boy thing going on, in a hypothetical situation I don't see why not. Tommy McLaren would be cute if he wasn't such a jackass most of a time, and if he weren't going out with the biggest bitch south of Canada. Aside from that, you know, Colby's hot and all but I don't think I'd do anything with him even if you paid me, too many strings attached you know?"

"Yeah, I get what you mean, the guy's liable to get himself in some serious shit with one of the bitches he slept with any time now," Brooke replied as she held her hand out in front of her and admired the way her fingernails looked in the sunlight. "I always though Elijah was pretty cute too, if he weren't already taken I'd chase him down."

"You're not his type," Gail said simply as she took a bite out of a tuna sub.

"And you know that how?" Brooke mused.

Swallowing a mouthful of bread and assorted toppings, Gail replied without missing a beat, "I mean, come on, I know we're both hot enough to threaten Quinn and her crew, but even you gotta know that's not what he's into. Blonde buxom girls like us don't interest him one bit, I mean half the school had a crush on him at some point, and he ended up with somebody like Gabby Rhodes, how do you figure that one out?"

"Yeah, I guess," Brooke said with a laugh. "Hey, you wanna hurry up and finish that sandwich? I really need to grab a smoke and maybe a hit of vodka, get buzzed, take the edge off things, you know?"

"Is that really the best idea? If anybody catches you hammered in school one more time, old Bernsteings liable to get you kicked off Grad Nite," Gail said with exasperation. "Wouldn't kill you to leave the drinking for tomorrow, would it?"

"How else do you think I got through the past four years?" Brooke asked sarcastically. "And either way my dad's got enough influence to get me out of any kind of shit and Bernstein knows it, he's not gonna give a rat's ass if he can help it."

"I just wish you'd cut back on the booze and the cigs, you know that stuff could end up killing you some day," Gail said, visibly irritated. Brooke's ongoing alcohol and tobacco use had long been the source of endless arguments between the two friends, but by the virtue of their friendship they had avoided altercation time after time. If they had been any less close than they were, it probably would have ruined their relationship, and Gail was thankful for that. Brooke was her best friend through and through, a little reckless at times maybe but all the same she couldn't imagine being without her.

"Sweetie, you know I don't give a shit about that. I'm gonna die young, might as well make the best of my time while I'm here," Brooke said as she fished out a half-filled cigarette pack from the pocket of her jacket, deftly withdrawing a stick from the box. She lit it and inserted it between her lips.

"Die young, huh?" Gail said as she found herself lost in her thoughts. Neither of the girls were remotely near the intellectual type, and mortality was not one of the topics they brought up often. Most of the time, their conversation revolved around the unsubstantial happenings on TV and around town, to hear Brooke talk about her future like that in no uncertain terms was a bit unnerving. _Then again, graduating from high school, no other time like it to think about what's gonna be in your future, is there? College, partying and hooking up with guys you really shouldn't hook up with, make your fair share of mistakes and bad decisions, and then what? Settling down isn't really your scene, but what's there for you to pursue?_

"You know what really gets me though?" Brooke said as she exhaled smoke.

"Uh, off the top of my head, still not being able to get into Herman Paulson's pants after so long?" Gail said sarcastically.

"That, and the fact that we've been saying goodbye to so many people," Brooke replied. "I mean, we're all graduating from high school, that's a pretty huge deal to most people if you think about it. I don't think we realize it right now, but there's gonna be a lot of people we'll miss after it's over. Lots of memories here, you know? For all the cliques and all the clichés, it's hard to say I'm not actually going to miss this place."

Not quite knowing how to put the words together, Gail could only nod and say, "Yeah, I get ya."

It was then that they heard the sound of screeching tires coming from around the front of the school. Letting their curiosity get the better of them, the two girls headed towards the source of the noise. They had no idea what they were about to witness.

* * *

The armored bus rounded a corner at full speed, and Jolene Spies found herself flung from her seat into a crowd of people. With the impact knocking the wind from her lungs, she struggled to climb back into her seat as the bus swerved sharply in the opposite direction. Clutching onto a handrail as Paul Cavallo helped her back onto her feet, she yelped, "Thanks!"

Catching a quick glance out the window, she could see the Ellie Fruit Company and the Blue Ribbon Laundromat rolling past. _Ellie's, Blue Ribbon, that's on the corner, right, we're close, right? Gotta be, the bus is slowing, no, wait, picking up speed, what the hell?_

"Jesus, why are we speeding up?" she asked to nobody in particular, looking around in confusion as nearly everybody held on to the handrails for dear life. Those who couldn't reach one found themselves thrown to the floor as the bus jolted from side to side as if the tires were running over a series of obstacles.

"What the hell's going on?" somebody yelled from a few rows ahead.

"Just hold on!" Leon Delgado yelled back through the megaphone from the front of the bus. It did little to get any of them to calm down, instead only rousing more confused cries from those around the bus while others made for the doors and attempted to wrench it open.

"We're going to crash, aren't we?" Jolene asked with a great deal of confusion. She wasn't really frightened of the bus crashing, it just made no sense to go to such lengths and fortify a bus if they were just going to crash it into a streetlight pole.

Next to her, Frank Greer replied surprisingly calmly, "Don't think so. Looks like Del's got something else planned, I think this might be part of it."

Staring in confusion towards the front of the bus as the travelled towards the front of Malton District High School, Jolene could only hope whatever that they had planned was going to be good. _Though the only thing we'll accomplish will likely be a whole lot of casualties at this rate. Jesus, Del's a nutcase, he's a nutcase and we're all nuts to go on this with him, but what the hell, what's life without a bit of excitement, right? That's what they say, but you'll get yourself killed if we don't, think you should tone it down, maybe after college, settle down and, hell, what now? Mama's gonna freak if she knows what we're up to._

The tires screeched loudly as the armored bus swerved at full speed towards the front of the school. From the windows, they could see the other students scattering as they spotted the bus approach, freshmen and juniors and sophomores, even a few straggling seniors here and there, all of them hurrying to get out of the way before they get splattered by a bus full of madmen. Coming out of her thoughts, Jolene could only watch as the bus came closer and closer to the front of the school.

She had no idea what was about to happen if everything went according to Del's plan, but she would never find out. One of the girls standing near the front had thrown herself at the driver, wrestling the steering wheel away from his grasp and sending the bus spinning. The tremendous momentum sent the bus flipping sideways, then rolling onto its roof as it continued gliding across the street, spraying sparks at two blonde teenagers as they yelped and jumped out of its path. Thrown against the metal roof like everybody else, Jolene could only stare out the window with the air knocked from her lungs. She was only vaguely aware of something warm spilling down the side of her scalp.

"What's going on?" she asked in disorientation as she struggled to get back to her feet, but with the bus still moving (although the friction had it slowing down rapidly), that was all but entirely impossible.

As the upside down armored bus finally came to a rocky stop, Jolene grabbed the sides of the chain-link fencing over the windows and pulled herself to a seated position. Many of the bus's riders were now streaming out of the doors, while others lay unmoving at odd positions.

"Oh god, somebody, please help!" a girl screamed as she rocked somebody lying on the roof of the bus. "I think he's dead, oh god!"

As she blinked the blood away from her eyes, Jolene noticed something rather strange. He looked like he could have been in the army, dressed from head to toe in camouflaged fatigues, but that couldn't be, right? _What's the military doing in a nowhere little town like this? Got to be hallucinating, go ahead, blink, clear the vision from your eyes. Is that a gun?_

She only had the briefest of moments to see what looked like a barbed dart shoot into her thigh before the world went black. Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #16 to the paying audience and the betting crowd would soon come to know, was down for the count.

To the soldiers who had been tasked with the incapacitation and capture the future contestants of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale, the timing couldn't have been better. Too stunned by the bus crash that had taken everybody by surprise, most of them gave up no fight as they were tranquilized and loaded into half a dozen military trucks that had been waiting just outside the Ellie Fruit Company (incidentally where Nadine Ellis, a.k.a. Girl #1, and Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, had been found and subsequently captured). Even as they lay unmoving in the trucks' dark confines, none of them had any idea what was about to befall them.

* * *

She could still hear them walking around, which meant it wasn't safe for them to leave the closet yet. Neither of the girls had any idea what the soldiers wanted, but they knew it could hardly be a good thing. One moment, they were out there just bitching with the other girls, hanging around and doing nothing that was particularly meaningful. The next thing they knew, Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2 was slumped against the wall and Jessica Fondacaro, a.k.a. Girl #8, had what looked like a tranquilizer dart pinned to her bicep. Noticing a soldier nearby reload his rifle and take aim at the other girls, they took off. By some miracle, they had actually outran the soldier as he fired shot after shot at them from behind, eventually hiding inside one of the janitor closets inside the school halls.

"What the fuck's going on?" Nicole Reiniger, a.k.a. Girl #14, asked as she did her best to stifle the fear in her voice. "Did you see what happened back there, they got Helen and Jessica, they shot 'em and got 'em, what do you think is going on?"

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," Holly Richmond, a.k.a. Girl #15, said in considerable distress as she frantically searched for the cross from around her neck. She found it, and kept it in her hands as she backed up against the wall. A devout Catholic, her religion had been a minor annoyance to the other girls she hung out with, but at this point Nicole could hardly care any less.

"Jesus," she muttered to herself as more footsteps echoed outside, punctuated with what sounded like shots of those odd dart rifles they were carrying.

"They were shooting at us," Holly said with a hiccup, "I think those were tranquilizer guns, not, like, real guns, at least I don't think so. If they were using real guns Jessica would be dead, and Helen too, and there wasn't any blood, was there?"

Struggling to remember the scene that had just happened, Nicole found her recent memory a complete blank. While usually she simply did not have the capability to remember much of anything, this was different. It wasn't like when she couldn't recall any of that trigonometry stuff, or when she just couldn't memorize the years during which the Great War happened, no, this was different. She had been too distracted, too focused on getting away to remember.

"I don't remember," she finally admitted. _Hope so, that means they don't want to kill us, right?_

The door suddenly burst open, blinding the two girls with light from outside. Nicole half-expected to find herself face to face with a soldier wielding one of their dart rifles and ready to shoot her point blank. Instead, the person standing there was Justin Everett, a.k.a. Boy #23, one of the few genuinely nice guys of their class (though frankly she did not bother to know him much beyond that, they traveled in vastly different social circles). He looked as surprised as she was to see somebody inside, but looking around nervously decided to push his way in.

Nicole opened her mouth to protest, but Justin cut her off.

"The army's here, they're shooting people for some reason," he said quickly.

"We noticed," Holly interjected, "they came after us too. They got two of my friends."

"We need to get away," Justin said grimly as he looked over his shoulder, catching sight of an armed soldier leveling a shot at him from the end of the corridor. He yelped in surprise as the dart connected with the side of his head. If the shot had been an actual bullet, he would have been killed instantly amidst a slew of blood and brain matter. Instead, Justin staggered on his feet for a few more moments before the incapacitating agents delivered through the barb took effect and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Too frightened to make a move, the two girls in the closet held each other close as the soldier swiftly reloaded his rifle and approached them.

"Please, please don't," Holly had time to say before she found herself staring at a dart that stuck out the side of her chest. Next to her, Nicole was already slumped before she could say a thing, having been shot in the shoulder with the soldier's second shot. The girls were only conscious for moments more before the chemicals took effect.

And with that, Nicole Reiniger and Holly Richmond became what they would come to be known as Girls #14 and #15 of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale.

* * *

"We got three fresh ones here," Pvt. Martin Stoltz said to his colleagues as he methodically removed the ID from the wallets in their pockets and cross checked their identities against the contestant list he held. "G-fourteen, G-fifteen, B-twenty-three. All three of them are on the list."

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, Pvt. Kate Morrissey and Pvt. Mason Goddard approached with their tranquilizer rifles held high on the off chance that one of the teenagers had something up their sleeves. Once they could see that the boy and the two girls were indeed unconscious though, they let their guards down. Truth to be told, nobody could ever be too careful in this line of work. The nature of Battle Royale required its contestants to possess considerable fighting ability, and anything gone wrong during the capture process could lead to potential complications.

"Nice asses on those two," Goddard commented as he motioned at the unconscious redhead and her blonde friend, much to the apparent disgust of Morrissey.

"Misogynist," she said with a slight roll of her eyes. "Come on, let's get these kids to the trucks, Overbeck's liable to blow up at us if we take any longer in assembling the cast."

"She's got a point, the old guy looks like he just 'bout had a stroke when Ramierez told him one of the kids broke his leg," Stoltz interjected.

"Well, that's what alternates are for," Morrissey mused as she bodily lifted Girl #14 over one shoulder. _Broken bones, overdoses, suicides, alternates solve all the problems in the world, don't they?_

"Supposedly," Stoltz replied as he gathered up Girl #15 in his arms. "But you know what Overbeck's like, since when's he been much of a guy you can reason with? "

With a laugh, Morrissey said, "Yeah, figures."

"You guys realize these kids are gonna be dead soon?" Goddard said completely out of nowhere. "I mean, once we load 'em in the trucks they're doomed to die unless they happen to be that poor bastard who gets to walk out of this alive."

Insight was not one of the things they knew Goddard best for (if anything it would be lewd comments and sexual advances), and hearing this kind of talk coming from him was strangely unfamiliar, to say the least. It wasn't something they weren't all too aware of, but in their line of work, it wasn't something they could afford to mull over. After all, the very nature of Battle Royale dictated that most of them would not come out of the game alive. It was just something they had always... accepted.

Noticing his colleagues' solemn expressions, Goddard quickly joked, "Hey, all I'm saying is that this might be the last time anybody'll get to pork 'em if you'll let me with 'em for five minutes."

"You pig," Stoltz said good-naturedly as he delivered a soft punch to Goddard's shoulder, "Overbeck won't be too pleased if we bring these kids back dripping wet."

As Stoltz and Goddard exchanged lewd remarks with each other, Morrissey couldn't help but look on with a vague sense of something that felt all too familiar. _Dread, guilt, pity, remorse, sorrow, could be any or all of them, probably a combination of all of them. These kids don't deserve it... or maybe they do. What the hell do you know?_

Nevertheless, she still brought Girl #14 to where the military trucks awaited in front of the Ellie Fruit Company. _It's going to be a long three days working with these kids._


	3. Contestant Roster

**Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale**

**Contestant Roster – Malton District High School**

B1: Brierly, Jack

G1: Ellis, Nadine

B2: Moretti, Ricardo

G2: Quinn, Helen

B3: Vogel, Kurt

G3: La Rue, Deborah

B4: Delgado, Leon

G4: Lascano, Phoebe

B5: Dillon, Nicholas

G5: Brightwell, Alexis

B6: Webster, Micah

G6: Nichols, Bonnie

B7: McFarland, Andrew

G7: Crosby, Regina

B8: McLaren, Tommy

G8: Fondacaro, Jessica

B9: Perry, Adrian

G9: Wilkes, Courtney

B10: Caiger, George

G10: Arquette, Gail

B11: Sullivan, Mallick

G11: Bellucci, Clara

B12: Harding, Joshua

G12: Davies, Sophie

B13: Trent, Colby

G13: Holmes, Karen

B14: Cavallo, Paul

G14: Reiniger, Nicole

B15: Paisley, Jeremy

G15: Richmond, Holly

B16: Greer, Frank

G16: Spies, Jolene

B17: Norton, Hank

G17: Mueller, Shaina

B18: Howland, Lee

G18: Thompson, Marla

B19: O'Neal, Rodney

G19: Wilcox, Paige

B20: Farrell, Drake

G20: Halperin, Joanne

B21: Ricks, Elijah

G21: Kerr, Alicia

B22: Donovan, Chet

G22: Hilton, Brooke

B23: Everett, Justin

G23: Harlow, Donna

B24: Freeman, Virgil

G24: Easton, Alyssa

B25: Kennedy, Caleb

G25: Reagan, Daphne


	4. Pregame Briefing

**Pre-game Briefing**

**

* * *

**

Coming to after nearly three days of captivity in unconsciousness, Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, did not expect to wake up at seventy miles per hour.

She only noticed the cold wind whipping at her face at first, throwing her brown hair backwards in tangled knots. With the rest of her senses quickly recovering from the drug-induced stupor, she opened her eyes quite frightfully. What greeted her was a stunning display of pyrotechnics that blasted sparks and fireworks seemingly every which way and seared her retinas with tearful pain. Clenching her eyes shut again, she tried to sit up in her seat, instead finding herself strapped down by a locked safety harness. She opened her eyes again, this time with considerably less blinding pain than her last attempt. Looking around, she could see Ricardo "Rick" Moretti, a.k.a. Boy #2, slumped in the seat next to her, his head bobbing with the jolts of the ride.

It wasn't until the train came to the top of the hill and started to plunge down the track that she realized she was on a roller coaster. With a squeal, she threw her arms in front of her face as they hurtled down amidst a spray of sparks and confetti.

The carts practically slammed down on the bottom of the descent, nearly jolting her out of her cart if not for the locked restraints. Next to her, Rick was suddenly wide awake as he twitched in his seat and tried to gain his bearings back. Instead he only found shock as the train rounded a corner and damn near snapped his neck.

"The hell?" he asked loudly as he tried to stand up, only to be pulled down by the over-the-shoulder restraints. "What the hell, what the?"

Helen tried to say something, instead only managing a sound that was halfway between a sob and a hiccup. Normally a sophisticated speaker in school and an even more vindictive speaker out of class, Helen found herself at a loss of words. It wasn't only the confusion of the situation, but... she just couldn't stand roller coasters. It wasn't a commonly known fact that Helen Quinn, self-proclaimed bitch of the cheerleaders had a morbid fear of high speeds and altitudes, and likely would have made more than a few people snicker if they had found out in a different situation.

But it was nothing compared to what they were about to realize next.

A high-pitched noise filled the air as the cart came to the end of the circuit, slowing down as it rolled into the final station. The noise pierced through her eardrums, filling her with a world of splitting pain. Amidst the intense noise of the alarm were various screams from here and there along the train as even the heaviest sleepers were jerked from their deeply sedated states. In front of them, Nadine Ellis, a.k.a. Girl #1, came to with a frightful scream, while Jack Brierly, a.k.a. Boy #1, was uncharacteristically silent as he looked wildly around. Somewhere from behind, a voice she recognized as Phoebe Lascano's, a.k.a. Girl #4's, asked aloud, "Colby, where are you?"

As Helen's hyperventilating subsided as the roller coaster train came to a gradual stop, the mounting fear of what was to come did not.

* * *

Colby Trent, a.k.a. Boy #13, could hear his ex-girlfriend yelling for him, but he couldn't see her anywhere. In a way, he was thankful for that. Given all the propaganda and media saturation in the past decade, it was hard not to understand what kind of situation they had gotten themselves in, but if there was one thing to be thankful for in a situation as the present, it was that nobody he really knew very well was in it. Looking around, he could only see maybe twenty people, and none of them were his current or his ex-girlfriend. _Still doesn't explain why you hear her voice though, maybe somebody else, but why would they be calling for you?_

His queries were answered as the train he was on rolled up behind the first train. Looking to the front, he could see a mane of long blonde hair that was unmistakably Phoebe's, and beyond that the head of Helen Quinn as she struggled to look back. _Crap, they're in this too, they're both in this with you, man, this is bad._

Struggling to remain calm as much as he could, he raised his voice and yelled back, "Hey, it's all right, babe, I'm here!"

Both girls answered as they tried to turn around, but found themselves unable to with the shoulder restraints keeping them firmly in their seats. _Thank god, who knows what could happen when those two get together, you know you'll really need to get them to work out their issues sooner or later, right?_

Before they had been abducted for whatever purposes (_don't jinx it, could always turn out to be something else entirely, right?_), back when all three of them were students of Malton District High School, Colby had been somewhat of a playboy. With a nice set of good looks and manners that could charm practically any girl he wanted into submission, it didn't take much effort for him to get involved with Phoebe Lascano, a surprisingly pretty girl once he had her glasses off and her ponytail untied. Well, as things would have it, he eventually moved on and found himself a new girl. _Pheebs never quite got over that, did she?_

In this context though, this was bad. This was way bad. He just wasn't aware of how bad it could become.

Instead, he turned to the girl in the seat on his right, Karen Holmes, a.k.a. Girl #13, looked his way with wide eyes that seemed to be on the brim of spilling tears. It didn't take long for either of them to notice that her loudmouth of a boyfriend Tommy McLaren, a.k.a. Boy #8, was also one of the contestants of this thing. She seemed to have taken it badly, and Colby didn't blame her. _This is going to be hard. Harder for friends, harder still for couples. This won't end well..._

"This is going to be bad, isn't it?" Karen turned to him and asked sharply. Her calmness was plainly forced, and even he could tell that the girl was terrified of what was to come. With good reason too, if the previous seasons that he had seen on TV were of any indication.

"Yeah, I think so," Colby admitted. _The question is, just how bad?

* * *

_

The mosquito alarm blasted out for the third time, bringing all those who weren't still asleep from the third train of the roller coaster into reality. Among those that had been jolted from the deepest of slumbers were Rodney O'Neal, a.k.a. Boy #19, and Paige Wilcox, a.k.a. Girl, #19, both of whom despite sitting in the front seats of the train were completely out cold until the alarm sounded. Now wide awake and in considerable disorientation, they quickly found themselves brought up to date by the confused cries from people around them.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Paige yelled loudly as she struggled futilely in her shoulder restraints. She knew it was vain effort too, but doing something felt better than sitting there and awaiting... god knows what, her death most certainly, but she had little idea what else would be happening to her in the coming hours. What horrors would the next three days bring? Friends turning on friends, lovers fighting each other for survival, battles raging between acquaintances until only one survivor remains? It was horrible, there was no question about that. It didn't sound like it could be true, and yet... it was. It had to be. In a world where violence is all too glorified and government authority is harsher than ever, it wasn't too farfetched that she could end up in a Battle Royale herself. But...

"This isn't supposed to happen to us," she said aloud to herself. "We're good people, this doesn't make sense, this doesn't happen to good people, it's not the way it works!"

"You really think that, huh?" the boy in the adjacent seat said grimly as he turned to her. A seasoned school criminal for the lack of better wording, Rodney had seen his fair share of the bad elements of Malton District High School. Hell, he was part of the bad elements himself. If anything, Paige was willing to bet it was their type of people that got her involved in something like this.

Born a runner by nature, Paige had taken up track team as a hobby in middle school and by the time she got into high school, it had become a rather significant part of her life. More than anything it helped her to work out her emotions when the stress felt like it had gotten to the point where it was more than she could handle. If anything happened that she couldn't deal with, she lost herself by running. The little things like failing Advanced Trig and when Steven Naylor broke up with her, those could easily be overcome by a couple hours on the tracks, but for the bigger things like her father passing away and what happened to her little sister Marcie, after those incidents she often found herself on a long distance run away from her issues, from everything that plagued her in life. When the wind was whipping her hair back and her legs were pumping to push herself to the limit, there was nothing she couldn't deal with.

And right now, restrained in her seat while the world as she knew it fell apart, it was a feeling worse than death. And the only way she knew to channel her fear and distress was anger.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she found herself practically screaming. "I'm a good person. I don't deserve to be here! The Program, we all know it's supposed to root out the bad kids, but I'm here now and I'm a good person!"

"Look, you have every right to be angry but don't direct it at me, I didn't get you in here," Rodney said surprisingly calmly, "the government did. The good old US of A government that we have come to respect and fear, that's what's responsible for your current predicament. If you think this is a mistake that you're here then you are seriously naïve, because it doesn't care, okay? The Program doesn't care, the government doesn't care, none of the sick fucks running this show care about us being in here any more than it cares about rooting out the bad folk."

Stunned into silence by the boy's diatribe, Paige found herself at a loss of words. Motioning for Rodney to go ahead, she got him to smile a bit. It seemed he liked that he had an audience, and even though both of them were unable to do much of anything, they found a bit of comfort in each other.

"This is about putting on a show for the masses, not just for entertainment but also to scare our generation straight. That's why they got you and people like Marla up there, because they want to scare the good kids as much as the bad ones. The smart kids, that's especially what they're on the look out for, because they don't want people that could potentially overrule them. That's the whole underlying reason of this Program. The show part, that's just a bonus to them, you get it?"

Paige nodded.

"Good," Rodney replied as he lay back in his seat. "Because we're going to be in really, really bad situation and we could all use some-"

He was cut off as the mosquito noise blared out again, breaking any shred of comfort she might have gathered in the past few moments. Looking around with distinct fear, she could see the strange panels built into the backs of their seats open up to reveal an LCD screen. For the briefest of moments it was still tuned into static, but then it flashed to a face that was all too familiar to them and every other American.

"CONGRATULATIONS!"

* * *

Dressed in an uncharacteristically sparkly tank top and a short camouflage skirt, Season Eight winner Julie Winnfield stepped curtly into view. Her hair was cropped neatly into a bob cut that framed the shiny burn scars alongside her left cheek. She wore a military-issued duffel bag that swung from her shoulder. As she came squarely in front of the screen, she swung the duffel bag around onto the desk next to her. She wore a slight frown on her face as she spoke, as if she was dissatisfied with the arrangements of the video.

"Congratulations, senior class of Malton District High School," she said edgily, "on being selected to participate in the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale. I don't believe I have to mention how much of an honor it is to have been chosen to prove your patriotism to the founding fathers of our great country. As some of you might know, my name is Julie Winnfield and I am the winner of the previous season. I am here to lay out the ground rules and regulations so you will know how to fight with... gusto."

She wrinkled her nose as she takes a quick look at a teleprompter, then continuing, "You've been transported to an abandoned island which once was the location of the Asbury Seaside Resort as well as the neighboring Oak Ridge Amusement Park. It is still fully facilitated, which you are allowed to take full advantage of during your three day stay on the island. Huh, that's something they never gave us on our season, those cheap fucks."

Looking up at the teleprompter once again, she carried on, "Oh, yeah. You can also feel free to tear this place up as much as you want to as long as you keep up the fight. Which brings me to the basics of the game."

"As many of you should know, the nature of a Battle Royale requires the cast to eliminate itself until only one remains. In other words, each of you will have to kill off every other one of your competitors if you want to be the last one standing. Remember the three day period I mentioned, that's how long you have to accomplish this. If more than one of you remains at the end of the seventy-two hours, nobody wins. Rocks fall, everybody dies."

Letting a small smile come across her face, Julie said, "Right. Every six hours, the host of your season will broadcast all the deaths and casualties, as well as any special... happenings. But it's generally not enough to kill off your friends in the boring way."

She pulled out a third generation Glock 17 pistol and waves it in the air. "Not that shooting 'em in the head isn't a quick and effective way to score your first kills, hell that's how I killed my boyfriend. But if you want to win over the audience, you'll have to be creative. Cut 'em up, drown 'em, poison 'em, one of the past seasons even had somebody throw acid in this girl's face. So do us proud, okay, you little monsters? Remember, be creative, can't stress that enough."

"Right, now onto the collars. The important thing you need to know is... they explode. So stop tugging on 'em if you're doing that this second unless you want your time in the game to be cut tragically short. The collars you're wearing allow us to monitor your heart rate as well as your location and movements. They're completely waterproof and shockproof, so there is absolutely no way to remove it before you come out of the game, whether you're in a body bag or not. It'll also explode if you step outside the boundaries of the playing field, so take note."

"Also, an extra note here. There will not be periodical danger zones in this game, but if you cause any mischief, the big wigs are liable to set off one or two and blow your pretty little heads off. That's until the final six hours, at six p.m. all areas except the beach zones will become danger zones. Your host will give you further details on this if you survive that long."

"And now your packs," Julie said as she pulled her duffel bag open and displays its contents. "Inside each pack you will find enough food and water to survive three days, a map, a compass, a pen, a list of contestants for you to cross off, a flashlight, a cell phone with which you are allowed to make five texts to the other contestants in the game, and please don't even bother trying to call out, as well as a randomly assigned weapon. Well, you know how there're guys born with silver spoons and then there are the unwashed masses? The weapons will be completely randomized to eliminate any natural advantages. You could end up with a Kalashnikov assault rifle or a spoon. Some of you will get lucky, and to 'em I say, good luck and put on a damn good show. To the rest, tough shit, but there's no reason you can't get your hands on somebody else's weapon."

Reaching inside the duffel bag and pulling out a tomahawk, she took a vicious swing at the table that takes a good chunk out of it and announced, "This one's super lucky!"

"As of this moment it is now midnight, and you are officially contestants of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale. I will be calling out names in one-minute intervals. One pair leaves each time, a boy and a girl. Boys, please take the exit to your left, girls to the right, and as you leave, don't forget to pick up your pack from the luggage storage. Do me a favor, kids, be careful and take good care of yourselves, aight? You don't want to hurt yourselves out there."

"Well, let's get this son of a bitch on the road," she said, enthused. "It's show time."


	5. Hour 0: 50 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 0  
50 Contestants Remaining**

**

* * *

**

It was exactly midnight when Julie Winnfield announced from the video, "First ones up to bat, Boy #1, Jack Brierly, and Girl #1, Nadine Ellis!"

The front set of shoulder restraints swung open, freeing Jack Brierly, a.k.a. Boy #1, and Nadine Ellis, a.k.a. Girl #1 and allowing them free movement. For a few seconds, the two still remained in their seats, not completely sure of what to do, when the voice on the video returned, "You have exactly sixty seconds to retrieve your packs and leave this building, otherwise you'll find your heads detached from your shoulders and your friends will have two less contestants to compete with."

Hearing the previous season's winner repeat her instructions was like having the momentum of the game hammered into her brain. Though her mind still felt like it was filled with static, Nadine forced herself to stand on unsteady feet and climb out of the roller coaster. Finding solid ground beneath her feet as she stepped onto the station platform was a bit of reassurance, but she found little comfort from it. _This is all real isn't it? Andrew, he's here too, they said they'd give us our cell phones, right?_

On the other side of the train, Jack was quick on his feet as he made for the turnstiles of the station. They operated only in a single direction, and with the contestants' packs and their assigned weapons in the storage area outside, it was a security measure taken to prevent any opportunistic contestant from eliminating the other contestants before they had a fighting chance. Of course, there was nothing to stop them from waiting outside the building with a gun in hand, but at least it gave some of them a chance to fight back.

Making it through the turnstiles, Jack turned back and said genuinely, "Good luck, Nadine."

With that, he took off in a sprint, quickly disappearing around the corner. Still standing lost on the platform with no clear intention to do anything anytime soon, Nadine found herself spurred to action when her boyfriend Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, shouted at the top of his lungs, "What're you waiting for, get the fuck out of here!"

Jumping at her boyfriend's frantic commands, she took a few experimental steps towards the turnstiles, then before she knew it she was pushing through the gates. The stiles rotated to allow her through, and with the heels of her shoes clacking against the platform floor, she made towards the storage area. _Don't have much time left, gotta get out of here, go on, not enough time, run, get out of here!_

Coming to a room with lockers set alongside one wall, Nadine briefly considered making straight for the exit, but she knew she wouldn't have much of a chance out there without any supplies. Instead, she turned to the lockers and quickly scanned the tags for hers. Finding the topmost door labeled 'G1: ELLIS', she ripped at it with her fingers. With a mechanical click, the locking mechanism disengaged and allowed the metal door to swing open, revealing an olive drab duffel bag stuffed inside. Pulling out her pack, she swung the strap around her shoulder and made to continue down the corridor. The pack was lighter than she had thought. As she made a frantic dash towards the final set of turnstiles, it bounced against her back with each step. The muscles in her thighs were on fire, but with her sole though focused on making it out of the building before her collar detonated, she could not afford to mind the pain.

With a whoosh, Nadine bounded through the turnstiles and was greeted by the cool night air. Falling to her knees, she gasped for breath as she clasped her collar. _No beeps, no red light, nothing. You made it, girl, you're still alive._

Tears streamed out of the corners of her eyes as she tried to stand up, feeling light-headed and vaguely nauseous. With her pack hanging from one shoulder, she stumbled over to a railing nearby and leaned on it. Looking around, she could see the amusement park laid out before her. The railing she was leaning on had marked out queue lines, while various fairground attractions were aglow with lights. _Rockets, merry-go-rounds, bumper cars, more roller coasters, Ferris wheel in the distance, barns, is that a haunted house? The whole place to yourself..._

Lost in her thoughts, she only snapped out of her trance as she heard footsteps from behind her. Whirling around, she found Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, wielding a clunky crossbow in her hands awkwardly. The brown-haired cheerleader may have been one of the most gorgeous girls in school, but as things would have it she was also one of the most vindictive. In high school, they did not cross paths all that much; Helen was head cheerleader while Nadine was on the girls' swim team, the extent of their interactions was limited to Nadine avoiding the cheerleaders' clique during lunch hours.

In a Battle Royale though, it was all different. Everything could change.

"Get out of here," Helen said with suppressed fear as she held her crossbow high. "Somebody's gonna kill you if you stay out here. One of the other girls. Or maybe I will."

As if to prove her point, Helen reached inside her pack and pulled out a crossbow bolt. Though she did not immediately load her crossbow (in truth she had no idea how to), Nadine got the idea. Her weapon was still in her pack, if Helen or anybody else wanted to kill her, there was little else she could do to resist. The priority was to stay alive. They claimed they would give them cell phones, she could contact Andrew later and meet up with him. And maybe her friends and teammates too, if any of them were in this game as well.

Gripping the strap of her pack to prevent it from slipping off, Nadine took off into the night.

* * *

With Ricardo Moretti, a.k.a. Boy #2, and Helen Quinn out of the building, the roster fell to the pair assigned as the third contestants of their respective genders. Kurt Vogel, a.k.a. Boy #3, and Deborah La Rue, a.k.a. Girl #3, both left quickly and without a sound as their names were called by the video. Both of them were tough folk, and would almost certainly be making an impact on the game in some way or other. Kurt was a soccer player as well as a delinquent, while Deborah was simply... tough. Officially a member of the school's tennis team, she had taken up motorbiking as a hobby and as a street sport it had toughened her up well enough that everybody knew she would be a force to be reckoned with.

Exactly one minute after Kurt and Deborah had parted ways, the blonde, bespectacled Phoebe Lascano, a.k.a. Girl #4, left rather nervously while Leon Delgado, a.k.a. Boy #4, seemed to have all the confidence in the world as he strode off. After that, it all seemed to fall into some sort of motion. Nicholas Dillon, a.k.a. Boy #5, Alexis Brightwell, a.k.a. Girl #5, Micah Webster, a.k.a. Boy #6, and Bonnie Nichols, a.k.a. Girl #6, left in quick succession. All four of them looked like they had been too nauseous to do much of anything other than run out as fast as they could.

And then it was finally his turn.

In five long minutes, five pairs of contestants had left since Nadine sprinted out. Anything could have happened in that amount of time. She could have run into Kurt or Deborah or Leon and gotten herself killed. Even one of the weaker ones, they might accidentally pull the trigger on her and end her time in the game with one well-placed bullet.

"Boy #7, Andrew McFarland, and Girl #7, Regina Crosby, you know what to do."

The shoulder restraints popped open, and quick as lightning Andrew slipped out of the seats. Not wanting to waste any time, he made for the turnstiles, then the storage area. He took only a few seconds in retrieving his pack, then dashed out the gates into the playing field of the Battle Royale. It was dark outside, just a bit after midnight if the video could be trusted. The darkness provided them with rather decent cover, but at the same time it made it all the more difficult for him to track down Nadine.

Ask anybody at Malton District High School who the resident couple was, and more likely than not they would have told you it was Andrew and Nadine. They had gotten together since seventh grade and stayed as a couple despite the ups and downs since. Practically defined by each other's existence, they were nearly never seen without the other's company. They were like Jacky and Diane, a couple doing the best they could in an increasingly suffocating world. With Nadine's political interests and Andrew's insistence to hang out with what she called "the bad crowd" pulling them apart, they had done everything they could to maintain the relationship, and somehow they made it work.

Yet in the Battle Royale, he had lost her. She had left the building before he did and in a different exit, and he had lost her. It wasn't supposed to be this way, they were going to be together forever, but the Battle Royale had torn them apart.

"I'll find you," he said quietly to himself, "I swear to god, Nadine, I'll find you. Don't you worry because I'll be there to protect you."

Leaning against the wall as Tommy McLaren, a.k.a. Boy #8, left the building without bothering to look around, Andrew waited until the coast was clear before he set off in a different direction towards the barns. The place was near enough, and hopefully there wouldn't be anybody else around to interfere. Thinking better, he reached inside his pack and rummaged for his weapon. _Better to stay on the safe side. If anything happens you want to be prepared, somebody could jump out at you this very moment and you want to be able to bash their head in, right?_

He had hoped for a blade, maybe a hammer, some sort of object he could wield and swing away quickly. Instead he found a screwdriver that was the size of a small dagger. Decent weapon, certainly not a powerful one by any means, but enough for him to defend himself until he found Nadine. Who knows, maybe she had the luck to draw a gun. That would be nice, having a gun and... well, they would figure out what to do later. The priority was finding Nadine.

Holding the screwdriver in one hand, Andrew dug around for the cell phone. If he remembered correctly, the girl from the video said they'd be provided with cell phones, and that they'd have five texts (_or was it calls?_) to make. He could contact Nadine, if she was still around, they could meet up and be together again. Yeah, that was the plan. It was all going to work out. Nimbly handling the cell phone with one hand, he typed out a text.

'nadine, where are you? this is andrew, i'm at the barns just west of the coaster, i'll be waiting for you, love you and stay safe okay babe?'

Hoping to tell her to reply to his text if she received the message, he was frustrated to find that he had met the character limit of the text. _Damn it, what's this bullshit, can't even let us type out a full message? At least you managed to fit in everything, okay, send, send, please reply, Nadine, god please be safe and please reply.

* * *

_

As Colby Trent, a.k.a. Boy #13, and Karen Holmes, a.k.a. Girl #13, left the building at thirteen minutes past midnight, over half of the contestants were released into the playing field of the Battle Royale. While a great number of contestants were still in the area immediately surrounding the roller coaster station, there were those who had gone farther away in hopes of avoiding the killers and hunters of the game. For those twenty-four who were still strapped to the roller coaster, however, they did not have such luck. Trapped inside the station until their names were announced, all they could hope for was that none of the contestants who were released before them had the idea to pick them off one by one at the entrance.

Nicole Reiniger, a.k.a. Girl #14, soon found her beliefs to the test. As Julie Winnfield announced her name alongside Paul Cavallo's, a.k.a. Boy #14's, the over-the-shoulder restraints opened up and allowed the two to join the other contestants of the Battle Royale. Knowing she had only a minute to leave the building, Nicole turned around and quickly said to her friend and fellow cheerleader Holly Richmond, a.k.a. Girl #15, "I'll wait for you outside, okay?"

With tears staining her cheeks, Holly forced a smile the best she could. "Yeah, you better hurry and go, and stay safe."

"I will, don't worry," Nicole said as she took off.

Hurrying through the turnstiles and down the corridor, she came to the storage area where visitors of the roller coaster had once used to temporarily store their personal effects for the duration of the ride. Instead, half of the lockers now held packs with survival gear and randomized weapons, while the other half were empty and had their doors open. Spotting the locker labeled as 'G14: REINIGER' second from the bottom, she yanked the door open and pulled out her pack. The olive drab duffel bag was distended by something long inside, probably her weapon, but she didn't let her thoughts linger on it. Swinging the pack over her shoulder, she made for the exit of the building.

Nicole came out into the night air with a slight chill up her back. She realized that there were dangerous people out here with her already, and more than a few were certainly hoping to end her life. Hell, this was a Battle Royale, worst case scenario everybody was out to kill her. _No, can't be, not everybody's that bad. Holly's in this with you, Jessica too, maybe Helen but you don't really know. But the others..._

With a fearful glance at the fairgrounds around her, Nicole couldn't help but shiver. Somebody could be prowling nearby as she was standing there, waiting for her to let her guard down, waiting for a chance to pounce. Standing in the open, she was all too exposed, yet she couldn't exactly duck back into the roller coaster station without her collar detonating. All she could pray for was for Holly to hurry up and get out here. _Safety in numbers... but how safe can two defenseless girls be?_

_Well, not exactly defenseless_, she thought with a slight smile. Swinging her pack around, she practically tore the zipper open and looked through the pack. She didn't have to search long; her assigned weapon was a Benelli M1014 Super 90 shotgun that stuck out as much as a cheerleader on a battlefield. Gingerly lifting the shotgun in her hands, she tried to hold it in a position capable of firing (or at least intimidating any attackers into thinking that she knew how to fire a shotgun). It weighed rather heavy in her arms and fitted awkwardly. _Look at you, do you really think you're going to be capable of firing a gun? You may be able to handle a cheerleading baton, but a firearm, no way in hell. You're not up to this, there's no way you're ready to do this._

"Nicole!" came a voice from behind.

Whirling around with her shotgun held high as her arms could lift, Nicole was about to... well, she wasn't exactly sure what she would do. Bring it down perhaps, use it as a bludgeon and try to smack somebody with it. The thought was silly, but then again so was the idea of attacking her best friend. Lowering the shotgun, Nicole said with a gasp, "I'm sorry, Holly, I forgot you were out next!"

"That's okay, I'm all right," Holly replied with false strength. "We need to get out of here, there'll be people around, people coming out, some of them will try to kill us."

Hearing the footsteps of Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #16, echo from inside the roller coaster station, Nicole felt another chill. Jolene, a nice enough girl by all accounts, student council vice president, debate team, by all means she should have been trustworthy. But how much did they know about her? Nicole wasn't stupid, she knew well enough when people couldn't be trusted, and Jolene... was not one of the girls she could place her trust in. Deftly forcing the shotgun back into her pack and zipping it up the best she could, she turned to Holly and asked, "Let's run for it?"

Holly nodded, looking determined in spite of the fear clinging to her expression. "Count to three."

"One two three GO!" Nicole hollered as she took off, Holly quickly following behind her. If not for the wind whipping her red hair back wildly and the shotgun in her pack bouncing against the back of her neck, she might have chanced a look behind and seen Jolene looking utterly bewildered. Instead, she was only intent on making a getaway and could scarcely care less of what Jolene was up to so long as she wasn't trying to kill her or Holly.

As the two girls ran with dreadful thoughts plaguing their mind, an old song occurred to Nicole. It was a classic that meant a lot to her personally, and in this situation it was more fitting than ever. _After all, song's written for times like this, isn't it?_

Despite the circumstances, she couldn't help but mouth along to the lyrics of the song. _Tramps like us, baby we were born to run.

* * *

_

Elijah Ricks, a.k.a. Boy #21, walked out of the southern exit of the roller coaster station as he began to get a grip on the situation. It was bad, it was already rather bad and it was going to be worse, that much was sure, after all he could hardly expect a Battle Royale to end well. Fifty of them were brought in, only one would walk out at most. No matter how you looked at it, it couldn't possibly spell good news for any of them. It was bound to get really bad, but with some effort they could probably work something out. _Make the most of your final hours..._

Wielding the baseball bat he had pulled from his pack moments ago, he quickly headed out into the fairgrounds. The lights from the various fairground attractions offered just enough light to illuminate his way, but there were still plenty of hiding places out here for somebody who wanted to take advantage of their early exit.

_Hide, just find the nearest hiding place and stay out of sight. No, not nearest, could be somebody there already, just, find some other place. Map, you got a map, pull it out and find a place to hide, that'll work, right?_

Spotting a dumpster next to a stall that once sold corn dogs, he dodged over and crouched by it, hoping it would provide sufficient cover until he got his bearings back. Swinging his pack to the front, he yanked open the zipper and rummaged inside for the map. He found the plastic pouch with the map inside, and pulled it out quickly.

_Okay, where now? Barns, food court, Western Street, strip mall, maybe get out of the amusement park? Hotel looks good, enough rooms to hide, right, maybe one of the cabins, or the forest? Shelter sounds good though, let's go with shelter. Hotel it is, then?_

Coming to a decision, Elijah made to wear the plastic pouch around his neck, but noticing something made him think better. A list of contestants in the game was printed next to the map grid, listed by gender and in order of their contestant numbers. There was no reason why he shouldn't check that out first, it would certainly help to figure out which of his friends and enemies were in this game with him. He knew Jolene was in this, Frank too, they had their names announced before his was. He thought he caught a glimpse of somebody who might've been Alyssa in the back, but he wasn't sure if anybody else he was close to was in the game as well. There was also Deborah, she left rather early on. In all honesty he wasn't very close to her, but they were both on the tennis team and he could use all the friends he could get.

Scanning the contestant roster, he quickly went over the list in his mind. Justin Everett, a.k.a. Boy #23, was on the list, as was Donna Harlow, a.k.a. Girl #23. Justin was part of student council and Donna was head editor of the school newspaper, both had been pretty good friends to him at one time or another. Gabby wasn't on the list though, there was that much to be thankful about. She wouldn't last an hour into the game, and as heartless as it might have sounded, she would only end up as a burden in the context of a Battle Royale. He didn't know what would happen to her, by the way things were going he would never know, but he hoped she would stay safe. She had a future, and he certainly hoped she wouldn't throw it away over some silly rebellion against this Battle Royale. _What's done is done. Gabby's hardly your concern now. Your primary focus should be staying alive._

Taking cover behind the dumpster as Chet Donovan, a.k.a. Boy #22, sprinted past, Elijah briefly considered his options. Justin was the next one out, but was he really somebody he could safely trust? He didn't know, it was all happening too fast. Justin was a decent guy, but what's to say he wouldn't snap and try to kill him? Perhaps one of the other guys would return and try to pick the rest of them off, and heading there would only place himself in danger.

_No, don't do that, get out of here first. You can figure out what to do later..._

Zipping up his pack and grabbing his baseball bat, he readied to dash out once Chet was out of sight. _Play it smart, play it safe, my man. It's gonna be a long three days and you don't want to die early, do ya? Just stick around, try to stay alive and stick around and hopefully you'll work something out._

* * *

More than anything else, Caleb Kennedy, a.k.a. Boy #25, was pissed. Given that he was normally a rather easily infuriated person, that in itself should not have been a surprise, especially with his recent induction into the Battle Royale. But no, his anger was not directed at the game itself, rather it was at the fact that whoever had plotted out the Battle Royale's contestant roster had the nerve to assign him as Boy #25. Twenty-five out of twenty-five, any half-witted person could see it was far from the optimal arrangement. Last contestant of his gender, that meant he was pretty much shit out of luck in this game. No targets walking out one by one, no, only some pussy gunman waiting outside to shoot him the moment he walked out.

No, that wasn't going to happen if he had his say. As he watched the shoulder restraints of Justin Everett, a.k.a. Boy #23, and Donna Harlow, a.k.a. Girl #23, pop up, Caleb tried to come up with a plan. Some course of action, anything to do other than to get killed before he could even make his mark. Something to give him a fighting chance in this game.

Looking over to his seatmate, he found it. Daphne Reagan, a.k.a. Girl #25, was for the lack of a better word his current fuck du jour. She was a pretty, albeit short, thing with a head of ragged blonde hair and normally far from his preferred type, but there were other... perks. Before they had hooked up, she had been full of feminist ideals – all that crap about girl power and gender equality. Never one to step down from a challenge (or a dare from a buddy), Caleb had set out to prove she was full of shit, and he did it. As big of a chauvinistic jackass as he was, Daphne fell for it hard.

As well, she turned out to be very talented with her mouth. That accounted for their shaky relationship.

Still, in the context of the Battle Royale, it would prove to be little help. She might have once been a revolutionist, an idealist really, but Daphne was no fighter. She was on the gymnastics team (a minor detail he learned while querying how she got so flexible, aside from that he did not care much about his current lay's personal life), but that wouldn't be significant in the game, not when you've got forty-something people with guns and knives and sticks and bombs. Twisting and dancing around wouldn't do anyone much good.

What would do him some good at least was her weapon. The girl on the video, the last winner of the game, she said everybody would receive some random weapon. Could be a firearm, could be a blade, could be a household item that would serve no practical purpose in the game. No, he couldn't let luck dictate his path in this game, and if it did he would simply make it work for him. Daphne would get a weapon of her own, that would increase his chances of getting something good to work with. _And if she won't hand it over, well, there's your first kill then._

He turned to her with a forced smile. She looked back with wide, terrified eyes that leaked tears. She wasn't quite bawling yet, but with her lips quivering it looked like she wasn't far from doing that. It seemed she had taken her entry in the game badly, looking as pitiful as one could possibly imagine.

"Hey, it's almost our turn to go so shut the fuck up and here's what's gonna happen," Caleb said almost menacingly as he watched Virgil Freeman, a.k.a. Boy #24, and Alyssa Easton, a.k.a. Girl #24, leave with little fanfare. "When you get out there you run for it, you run for it and don't get your pretty ass killed. Then you come find me, you get away from there and come find me right away, you got that?"

Daphne would normally have something to say about his attitude (to no avail of course, Caleb was never one for manners), but with the shock and terror of the game weighing on her mind, she spoke nothing. Instead, she only nodded dumbly to show she understood.

They spent what was left of the minute in silence, awaiting their release. Caleb was still brimming with barely restrained anger, his muscles rippling and straining at the shoulder restraints as if trying to break them down so he could leave that much earlier. Daphne in stark contrast was beginning to sob quietly to herself. Neither had any idea that these would be the last few seconds of the game where they were not in fear of the killers and murderers around them.

"And now for our last pair of contestants, the promising Boy #25, Caleb Kennedy, and Girl #25, Daphne Reagan!"

With that, the two final contestants of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale were released. None could have predicted what horrors the seventy-two hours that followed would bring, nor could they anticipate the depravity and humanity that would result from it. For some, the game would bring unbelievable terror in their last hours; for others, it would offer them peace in their final moments. For one contestant, it would be their escalation to international fame. Only one thing was clear to all of them.

The game was on.


	6. Hour 1: 50 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 1  
50 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

Gail Arquette, a.k.a. Girl #10, was on the verge of vomiting all over herself, but somehow she managed to hold it down. Part of the reason she did was in fear of dirtying the super chic Jean Paul Gaultier summer dress she had on. It wasn't something out of her wardrobe, so the only explanation was that whoever had brought her here must have put her in that dress. In a way, Gail was grateful for that; at least when she was all alone in this game of death, she didn't look like much of a ruin. It didn't have much bearing on anything substantial, but it was the tiniest bit of comfort she could find from the situation. It kept her from realizing the gravity of what she was in.

She had been little more than a total wreck as she came out of the roller coaster station and into the Battle Royale. Tearful and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, she staggered out without any regard for the hunters and monsters out there. It was awful, they wanted her to murder all her friends and everybody she knew from high school, but that couldn't be, could it? In any event, she knew she wouldn't be able to do it. Murder, it was something awful, something that she never thought she would be capable of. Murder was awful, murder was something nobody should ever do, how could they expect her to do something so terrible? It was against the law, it was a felony, under most circumstances it warranted the death penalty or worse. But what about self defense, that was legal, right? That's what they all told her, self defense was legal, it would be okay to kill in self defense. _But could you really do it? It's not just the law, you gotta do it while all those other people are trying to kill you too._

"I can't do this," she whispered to herself as she hugged her pack tighter. She hadn't opened it yet, didn't want to really, as if not seeing the gun or knife or whatever weapon they had assigned her would make the situation more bearable. It didn't, it just reminded her awfully of her mortality.

She really felt like she had to throw up, and more than anything else she wished that somebody was there to hold back her hair. Not just anybody would do, she knew she wanted Brooke Hilton, a.k.a. Girl #22, to be there with her. They were best friends through and through, being separated from Brooke felt like the hardest thing she ever had to do. _No, second hardest. You've done worse._

Shaking away the bad thoughts, she looked up from the untouched zipper of her pack. She had panicked the moment she got out of that building, running like hell with no particular aim and bawling like a baby all the while. The tears had subsided somewhat as she found a place to hide, a toadstool hut that she squeezed in easily enough. It wasn't much of a shelter, if anything it felt rather in the open compared to some of the other structures around. Still, she couldn't bring herself to leave now that she had hidden. It was limited safety at best, but like the Gaultier summer dress it was something that made her feel the slightest bit better.

If only Brooke was there to give her a hand. It hadn't been easy alone in high school, let alone in a Battle Royale. If all those years of not having friends taught her anything, it was that being alone opened her up to attacks. Visceral lies and slander about what she had and hadn't done, snot-nosed comments about her appearance, her family, her intellect. Those girls who were in cliques, those other girls who flitted about in pairs, they attacked her viciously, and not until she found a friend was she able to stand up for herself. It was Brooke that helped her be strong and got her to understand the reality of the world.

Without Brooke Hilton, she was akin to nothing.

"I can't do this alone," Gail whimpered again as she felt the tears threaten to spill. There was nobody around to see her or judge her, and not wanting to suppress her emotions any more, she let the tears flow. Being sad wouldn't help her right now, but it was all she had to rely on.

Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, she tried her best to push away the thoughts. It would be so much easier to go through this without thinking about what she had to do if she wanted to survive and what everybody else would do because they wanted to survive. _It's going to get ugly, don't you think for a second this won't get ugly. You've seen what the fights at school were like, this is going to be so much worse..._

Suddenly overcome with revulsion, Gail just managed to throw her pack to the side before promptly vomiting all over the floor. As remnants of her stomach's contents splattered out, getting her dress and her long hair dirty, she couldn't help but manage something that approximated a smile. The heaving definitely left her feeling worse for the wear, but in a strange way feeling worse made her feel better. It didn't feel as surreal now that everything came back to her with amazing clarity. The painful convulsions of her stomach, the acrid taste of vomit in her mouth, footsteps coming from outside, the sourness of the air around her.

She could hear them all too clearly now. Footsteps. Somebody walking around outside.

Almost frantically, she pulled open her pack and tried to find her assigned weapon. It seemed unbelievably stupid now, hiding in plain sight while she had her weapon stashed away where it wouldn't do any good if somebody wanted to kill her. Having something to defend herself with was better than sitting there unarmed. Searching her pack for her weapon, she hoped to find a dagger or an ax, something she could pull out right away. A gun would be nice in the long run, but she didn't have the time to figure out how to load and fire it.

Instead, she found a garden gnome.

With a scream, she hurled the stupid grinning ornament away. She didn't intend to, but the sight of the gnome's frozen expression terrified the shit out of her more than she thought was ever possible. The garden gnome skidded across the floor, coming to a rest against the far wall, but the damage was done. The footsteps froze for a moment, then whoever had been outside asked aloud, "Is somebody there?"

It was a boy's voice. Somehow that sounded worse than the thought of a girl being outside. _At least if it's a girl, there's a chance it might be Brooke. But no, it's a guy, it's a guy out there, he's probably trying to kill you._

"Don't come in here, I have a gun!" she cried. It was an outright lie, even she could hear that from her voice, but there was still the impossible thought that the boy outside might buy it and go away. _Please, go away, don't come in here, don't call my bluff and don't come in here._

"Look, don't shoot me, I don't mean any harm," the boy outside said calmly.

"Just go away!" Gail practically screamed as she pulled out the flashlight from her pack. It would have to serve as her weapon for now, if the boy decided to come into her hiding place. _He shouldn't, he's not allowed to, I called this place!_

"Please, I won't hurt you," the boy said as he stepped slowly into the hut with his hands raised. Rodney O'Neal, a.k.a. Boy #19, would have been an intimidating figure to see in the context of the Battle Royale, but the uncharacteristically calm look on his face, almost as if he were resigned to a fate that was out of his hands. Simply put, Gail had always known him to be a thug and little more than that. A tried and true delinquent as well as a teenage criminal on multiple occasions, Rodney was not one of the people in this game that she trusted not to kill her. Still, it was odd to see him look so composed in this game of death, almost like it didn't affect him at all. No, that wouldn't be right. It was like being in this game... changed something in him.

"What do you want?" Gail asked defensively as she held her flashlight high.

"I just heard you screaming, thought I'd come over and see if you're in trouble," Rodney insisted as he reached into his pocket. For a petrifying moment she thought he was going to pull out a gun, but he merely found his flashlight and clicked it on. Light illuminated the inside of the toadstool hut, getting Gail to flinch.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Rodney said as he clicked off the light again, "I just wanted to make sure you're not hurt or anything."

"I'm fine," Gail said as she wiped the tears from her face. "I'm not hurt, I'm just really scared, but thank you for stopping by and making sure all the same."

"I kind of had to," Rodney said with a smile. It fitted awkwardly on his lips, but it gave Gail an unfamiliar sense of reassurance.

Smiling in kind, Gail raised her head and asked, "I know this is a lot to ask of you, but can you stick around for a bit? I'm really scared, it would feel nice to... have somebody around here."

For once, Rodney actually looked disorientated, looking like he had some sort of unspoken difficulty. Looking her hard in the eye, he said finally, "Look, it's not that I don't want to. I'm beyond flattered that you want to spend your last hours with me, but it's just that... there's something else that I have to do. I know this sounds really bad, but I can't waste my time here."

Gail had to admit she was a little bit hurt, but at the same time she knew it was out of her hands. She had no business asking other people to let her depend on them, it was simply unreasonable however she put it. Still, it would have been nice to have somebody tolerate her lack of reason in a situation so insane it seemed nearly impossible. Rodney was no familiar face in high school, but out here he would have made a decent friend at least. Somebody with whom she could share her fears and worries and paranoia and-

Rodney made a sudden move towards the far end of the toadstool hut, and in surprise Gail dropped her flashlight. Noticing, he grimaced and said, "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. This thing here, is this your weapon?"

She looked over and could see that he had picked up the garden gnome, turning over the figure in his hands. It was an ugly thing really, with features too exaggerated to even resemble human, twisted into a frozen grin. Its pointed hat was slightly chipped from when she had thrown it away, but other than that it was in decent condition. _Great, that's really what I need, an unbreakable gnome._

"Yeah, I lied about having a gun," she said with a grim smile, then added, "I guess I'm pretty much fucked, huh?"

"Not really, you wouldn't be the only one to start out with a crappy weapon, but yeah in the grand scheme of things I think you're pretty much out of luck," Rodney mused as he seemed to be thinking. Evidently coming to a decision, he swung his pack around and unzipped it in a smooth motion. Gail watched nervously as he pulled out something that appeared to be a wooden paddle.

"What's that?" she asked as she forced herself to remain calm.

"Here, it's not a lot, I know, but it's better than old Chomsky you got there," Rodney said as he flipped the paddle around and offered her the handle.

She stared at it, unsure of what to make of the boy's intention. It seemed to her like he was going to offer her the weapon, but that couldn't be. To willingly give up a weapon was akin to forfeiting any chances they had in this game, to actually do so would be completely unthinkable. He couldn't possibly be doing this, this couldn't be for real, there had to be a catch somewhere in there. What would he be getting out of this? Nothing, that was what, and in a Battle Royale she didn't think anybody could afford to be charitable. It was life or death, damn it, people don't do that, do they?

Still, it was a decent weapon that she could really use. Nothing like a gun or a dagger, but certainly scores better than her garden gnome. If somebody tried to attack her, maybe she could conk them on the head and make a quick getaway. It would afford her a chance, however minimal...

"Thank you, thank you so much for this," she gushed as she accepted the weapon. As she held it by the handle, she recognized it as an expertly crafted cricket bat, pre-knocked and ready for its owner to swing away.

"All right, it's been nice talking to you but I have to go, you stay safe and take care, all right?" Rodney said as he placed the garden gnome upright on a wooden table. "Let me give you one last piece of advice, get the hell out of here. Find a proper place to hide, see if you can find a few friends you trust absolutely, then hide out and stay alive for as long as you can. Unless you're up to killing your friends, that's the best you can do in the situation."

"Thank you so much for this, really," Gail said sincerely as she could feel the tears come again. Gathering up her pack and the rest of her possessions, she stood up and made for the exit of the toadstool hut, intent on taking Rodney's advice and getting out of the hellhole. Once she was safe, she could contact Brooke and see if they could get back together. _And then everything will be all right again? Doubt it, but it's all you have now._

With her newly acquired cricket bat held awkwardly in one hand, Gail set off to find herself some safety. As he watched her run away, Rodney prepared to do the opposite.

* * *

Daphne Reagan, a.k.a. Girl #25, was not a defeatist. There might've been some who would have simply give in to the game and commit suicide, but Daphne would never do that. The thought had certainly crossed her mind more than once during the earliest moments of the game, but each time she dismissed it quicker than the last. Suicide was unthinkable, not out there and certainly not in this game. She might not have much of a fighting chance, but there were only two options. She would either survive this thing or die trying.

Of course, in the end it was easier said than done. She found a gun and ammunition in her pack, a Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic pistol according to the manual that came with it. She hadn't fully read it yet and had only skimmed through the pages for a vague idea of how to use her gun, but with some time and practice she was confident she could handle it rather well. It would certainly be helpful if she decided to... play the game, if that was the right term for it.

It was ridiculous. It was absurd. If she hadn't been in a Battle Royale, she would never have given the slightest thought to the possibility of having to kill her friends. Yet she was in it, and there was no use lamenting that fact. She had to do it, if she wanted to live she had to kill off her friends, and honest to god Daphne thought she could do it. _It's simple, right? Just aim, point and click. It's a gun, guns are powerful, you can do this, right?_

Well, she didn't know. On paper it seemed awfully easy, just put away the emotional connections and try her best to survive. Always take care, watch her back, hunt down the other contestants. With a gun she could pretty much do all of that, and as long as she erred on the side of caution, it would be okay. She would win, she would be able to survive and win the game. It didn't seem all that impossible either. There would be difficulties of course, people who would try to fight back, and she had no illusions that she would get through all the battles unscathed. But she could do it, she could take it all and she could win. It wouldn't be that hard, she had a gun after all.

There was just one small complication by the name of Caleb Kennedy, a.k.a. Boy #25.

They were involved before the game, less of a relationship and more of a meaningless fling really. It meant nothing out of the game, and it certainly wouldn't mean anything in it. Daphne honestly believed she wouldn't have any qualms with killing him, but if there was one thing she knew about Caleb, it was that he was violent. That was one of the reasons that made it all the more mystifying why she had decided to hook up with him; as a human being Caleb was certainly not a quality one. He was an all around jackass, often believing violence was the best and only solution to any situation. That coupled with the fact that he was one of the physically strongest members of the wrestling team was enough to get most people out of his path of rampage.

It wouldn't be easy to take him down. He was powerful, even more so if he could get his hands on a halfway decent weapon. Sure, she had a gun, but she didn't think for a second it would be easy to take him down without some sort of upper hand. Element of surprise maybe. He had seen her crying, he certainly wouldn't expect if she tried to strike out of nowhere, right? Then again, if it failed she would be as good as dead, maybe it was too risky a plan to carry out.

Still, seeing no other option she had contacted him. Before they had set out on their own, he had told her to go and find him, and so she had done so. It wasn't that she couldn't strike out on her own, hell, she had a gun, and besides she had no way of knowing what his intentions were. In spite of all that, she still decided to go and find him simply out of a lack of direction. She didn't have much of an idea about what to do in the game, well, she was going to play to win, yes, but she didn't know how to start doing that. Caleb would know. She had few doubts that Caleb would not set off to kill, she knew that much about his inner nature from being with him. She just had to be careful. If Caleb didn't mind her sticking around, it would be all too well. She could find an opportunity to stab (_or shoot_) him in the back later. If he wanted to kill her, then she had her gun ready. She had it loaded, she had the safety off, she had everything ready.

"Just come and get me," she muttered to herself as she dodged through the fairgrounds. The text message she sent Caleb asked him of his location. His reply said he was to the south of the roller coaster station, near the slides. It had taken some time for her to navigate the amusement park under cover, but she managed it. She could see the slides in the near distance.

Raising her pistol and holding it in front of her, she carefully proceeded towards the slides. _Pull the trigger and the bullet comes straight out, right? No complications._

"Hey babe, what took you so long?" asked a deep voice that was unmistakably Caleb's.

Daphne jerked around in total surprise, looking around as the dark boy who emerged from the shadows. He came at her almost menacingly, moving with surprising speed. Daphne flinched, and almost brought her pistol up to level off a shot, but then Caleb pressed a rough kiss on her cheek as if trying to reassure her that it was all fine. Letting her guard down for just the slightest bit, she reciprocated and kissed him in kind. It would probably have been easy to shove the pistol in his abdomen, blow a hole in his guts before he realized anything was up, but she didn't want to risk it.

"Sorry about that, I almost ran into some guy a while ago and had to make a detour," Daphne lied as she tried to spot a weapon on her boyfriend. He wasn't holding anything other than the straps of his pack, and she didn't see anything that appeared to be in the pockets of his varsity jacket. Either he still had his weapon stashed away in his pack or he had lost it on the way. _Better make sure, he could be hiding something after all._

"Uh, hey, where's your weapon?" she asked with feigned airiness.

"It wasn't anything good, fuckers gave me a notebook computer, can you believe this shit? I dumped it the first chance I got, that shit's only going to weigh us down," Caleb mentioned with rising irritation.

_That's good, he doesn't have a thing, he can't try to kill you then, can he? Unless he's lying, he could have a gun, he could have one of those tiny double shot pistols. Doesn't look like it but what the hell do you know? Best to err on the side of caution._

"So," Daphne said as she tried to get the conversation rolling again, "what the hell do we do now?"

"We play the game," Caleb answered quickly, "we play the game and we play to win. You and me, the two of us can sweep this island, if we come across anybody we kill them and take their weapon and move on. We ain't gonna go down easily, you and me can watch each other's back and we can go all the way to the end."

"But what happens then, one of us gotta kill the other, don't we?" Daphne asked as she subtly thumbed the safety of her pistol. _Safety off, ready to fire, that's good._

"We'll figure out something," Caleb said with a note of finality.

"I don't know," Daphne admitted with honesty that surprised even herself. It wasn't that she didn't want to win; on the contrary, she had high hopes that she had a fair chance to survive this game. If her friends stood in the way, then she would gun them down and so be it. But it wouldn't be easy, hell, even coming to terms with the thoughts weren't easy. Every now and then she wondered if she was really capable of murder. _Maybe, maybe not, you just don't know until you try it, do you?_

"I mean, it's not that I don't want to live, I just don't think I could kill our friends even if I had to," she said weakly.

"I'll get it done if you honestly don't think you're up to it, just give me your gun and let me take care of everything, you stand aside and look pretty," Caleb practically demanded as he reached for Daphne's pistol. On instinct, she jerked her arm away before he could get his hands on her gun.

"Whoa, hang on a second there, what the fuck was that?" Caleb hollered in anger as he made to grab her wrist. "You trying to fight me, woman? You honest to god trying to fight me?"

"The gun's mine, I don't care what the hell you do but it stays with me," she replied smartly as she twisted away from him. "Get your hands off me!"

Enraged, Caleb bounded over and landed a vicious slap across her face, whipping her head to the side as her ears began to ring.

"Listen, you fucking bitch, you don't want to mess with me, give me your fucking gun and we'll pretend that never happened, give me the gun and I'll still give you a chance, you understand?" Caleb asked as the infuriation began to take over. "You fucking listen to me when I tell you If you play any more fucking games I will snap your fucking neck and leave you for dead, you want that to happen? You want me to kill you like the fucking pig you are? Give me your fucking gun or I swear to high hell, I will do it."

Still clutching her cheek in immense pain, Daphne forced out, "Fuck that."

Quickly, she raised her gun and squeezed the trigger twice. She didn't anticipate how loud the blast would be, or how strong the weapon's recoil was. Her ears were ringing from the gunshots in such close proximity, and her right arm felt like it had been ripped from its socket. She was disoriented enough that she couldn't be sure whether her shots had met her target, but at the same time she could see Caleb stagger back. _Yeah, take that you fucking chauvinistic pig, how do you like them apples?_

She could stay, she could stay and shoot him dead, but with her arm still on fire from the gun's recoil, she didn't think she had the aim to do it. Instead, she whirled around and made a wild run for escape, hoping to put as much distance between the two of them as possible. _If he's dead then it's all good, if he's not he's bound to come after you. Just run, run like there's hell and high water after you. Considering the alternative..._

With adrenaline coursing through her system and pushing her to her limits, Daphne sprinted as fast as she could through the fairgrounds. She couldn't even bring herself to look back and make sure she wasn't being followed. It wouldn't be easy hiding in the park; there were simply too many lights and not enough cover. If she wanted half a chance at survival, she had to get out of here. There were forests outside, as well as a hotel and surrounding cabins, beaches, and all sorts of other facilities around that would offer plenty of hiding places. Anything but staying here where Caleb could catch up to her.

It wasn't until she was out of the park did she risk a look over her shoulder. There was no sign of anyone. It was just her and the trees.

Feeling the exhaustion already begin to take over, Daphne slowed down to a slight walk. _That was close, can't let that happen again, next time you won't be so lucky. You got away this time, but you won't be so lucky if you run into him again. He'll kill you if you don't up your game, they'll all try to kill you unless you start getting serious. This is no game. This is survival..._

Looking down at the pistol in her trembling hands, Daphne made a decision. She was ready to play.

* * *

Clara Bellucci, a.k.a. Girl #11, did not belong in the Battle Royale, she was sure of that. She was a hopeless romantic by nature, certainly far from a fighter. Roses and champagne were her thing. Lockets and notes stuffed into lockers were her things. Guns and knives and sticks were most certainly not. There wouldn't be any point in bringing her into this game. She was not an able fighter, with practically no athletic ability to speak of, and anybody who knew her would tell you she was harmless as a fly. It wasn't hard to understand why Clara could not and would not be part of this game.

But for some reason the powers behind the Battle Royale still chose to put her in the game. They wanted her to be in this for a reason, but it wasn't like she could kill. It wasn't like she could... play the game. No, the only reason they wanted her in this was so she could die. Morbid as it sounded, it made perfect sense.

Coming into the game, Clara knew she didn't have the best of luck. She had neither the strength nor the heart to play the game, and so the only thing left for her to do was to run. Hide and hope the hunters wouldn't find her too soon. Pray that her end would come painlessly. _You do know that you're going to die, right? Nobody ever survives a Battle Royale, nobody..._

Suppressing the tears hadn't been easy, but she managed it. With some effort, she even forced herself to run until she was far away enough that nobody to get to her. She didn't have the time to check her map, but while running without the slightest idea of where to go, she came across a strip mall. It seemed like a reasonably safe place, and so she had decided to hide there. There were around a dozen different stores out front, apparel, toys, jewelry, novelty and knickknacks, even a pharmacy at the end of the plaza. Plenty of places to hide.

For a while, it had seemed almost safe there. Some of the clothing stores had dressing rooms that were hidden from plain view, and they suited Clara just fine. Forcing her pack into the small cubicle, she made a halfway decent hiding place in there. If she remained hidden, she could be safe. Nobody could stumble upon her, could they? It was so out of the way, and she didn't think anybody would take the time to look over every nook and cranny. Nobody would find her. For the time being at least, she was safe.

Breathing a much needed sigh of relief, Clara grabbed onto her pack for some semblance of safety. It contained everything that she had to survive the next few days, but what equipment they did provide her with seemed terribly inadequate. Food and water was good, she would need that, as was the flashlight they gave her that chased away the demons. The box cutter that came in her pack seemed pitiful compared to some of the stronger artillery others would undoubtedly have received, but at the same time Clara was glad she had something at the very least. Things could be worse, it was like her mama had always said. Things could definitely be worse.

At that, Clara laughed weakly and without much humor. Things could hardly be worse, could they? She was about as close to rock bottom as it could get. She was terribly out of place in this game, she had no survival skills, no instincts that would help her, and she didn't even get anything halfway decent to defend herself with. _A box cutter? That's no weapon, it's stationery, something you cut paper with. How the heck are you going to be able to cut somebody with this? Not that you can do it anyway, it's weak, you're weak, you're pathetic, you're pathetic, you're so pathetic it's unbelievable. Papa must be so mad, he's probably yelling at the screen right now, I'm sorry papa, I can't do this!_

A sudden beep jolted her out of her thoughts. Frantically she looked down at her collar, certain that it was about to detonate and blast open her throat in an explosion of sparks. Much to her relief, it was still dormant. Just a dull red LED light blinking away in accordance with her heart rate.

Looking around, she spotted the source of the noise. The cell phone they had provided her with had fallen out of her pack when she jerked away, and its screen was aglow as it vibrated. Grasping it quickly to mute the sound, she flipped it open.

'1 new message,' the screen read.

With excitement that she didn't think possible given her situation, Clara opened the text message and read it. It didn't make much sense to her at first, and not until the third time she went over it did she finally understand the message.

'clara, where are you? i'm in trouble, need help, please come and help me out if you can. i'm at this burger tank place in kiddieland, g4.'

The sender of the message as indicated by the phone was Marla Thompson, a.k.a. Girl #18. Not having thoroughly checked the contestant roster or the contact list that was uploaded to her assigned cell phone prior, Clara was honestly surprised to know she was in this game. One of her good friends, Marla was somebody she could always talk to about most things. Battle Royale was not one of them. It had always been somewhat of a touchy issue for the girl, her older brother having been killed while his friends were taken. That was before Marla had moved to Malton, and since then she had practically avoided every mention of the game. It didn't take much for Clara or the other girls to notice it was a sensitive area.

Pondering, she couldn't help but wonder how much of an impact this must have been for Marla. She thought she had it bad, but there was every chance that Marla must be taking this game worse. Not to mention the message... somebody could very well be trying to kill her right now. She could be inches away from the muzzle of a gun right this moment.

But Clara didn't have it in her to set off and rescue her friend, did she? It seemed an impossible thing to do, to leave the safety of her shelter and head out in the open. It would take a serious hero to do something that... suicidal, and Clara was no martyr.

She could be.

The thought came as a bit of a surprise even to the girl herself, but for some odd reason it made sense. Despite the fact that it seemed unbelievably stupid, it made sense to her. She couldn't just sit here on her ass for... well, as long as she could. It might've been the smart thing to do, it might allow her to avoid most of the killers out there, it might even allow her to win the game by some miraculous coincidence, but she didn't think she could do that. It just felt so... helpless. If they wanted her to serve as cannon fodder in this god forsaken game, she refused to idly stand by and let whatever sick fucks are watching the show watch her die. She wanted to prove them wrong. Clara Bellucci might not be well-suited for this Battle Royale, but she wouldn't be helpless.

She could make a difference. Not in the way that she could actually kill, but she could defend. She could defend and she could protect. Marla seemed like a good enough place to start, after all, a friend in need is a friend indeed, right?

Grasping her cell phone with trembling fingers, she quickly typed up a reply.

'don't worry marla, i'll be right there.'

With that out of the way, Clara gripped her box cutter and readied to make the hike out. If Marla was in danger, she would go out and help her. She might not be able to fight, but she could run and she could hide. She could more than take care of herself out there. And once she found Marla, the two of them could find some safer place to hide out than a Burger Tank or the dressing room of some clothing store.

Swinging her pack around, Clara prepared to set off. She had every intention to make a difference in this game.

* * *

Lee Howland, a.k.a. Boy #18, had been following the girl for some time, but he still hadn't found the right opportunity to make his move yet. He was fortunate enough to find her during the early hours of the game. She was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, quite obviously somewhere between terrified and confused. It wouldn't be hard to subdue her, maybe even kill her if he could make himself do it. The more he thought about it, the less difficult it seemed. _Yeah, this game is murder, isn't it? That's what they want you to do, so it'll be okay if you do it. You have the means..._

The weapon with which he was assigned, an ice pick with thin spike that protruded from its wooden handle. It was easy enough to handle, and would undoubtedly prove deadly if he put some force behind the strike. There were mafia hitmen who used ice picks as murder weapons, favoring how it could effortlessly impale bone. Abe Rollins. Harry Strauss. Nicky Santoro. Hell, even Walter Freeman, as much of a nutcase neuroscientist as he may have been, used to perform lobotomies by hammering ice picks into his patient's frontal lobes via their tear ducts. That little bit of information made him feel considerably better about his weapon. So what if the other guys had guns and dynamites? One quick stab to the brain will kill them instantly.

He didn't dare to make his move just yet though. To kill the girl required a precise strike to the skull that would stab clean through bone and brain matter, something he certainly couldn't do while she was running without regard for her own safety like that. If only he had a gun, he could simply fire away and kill her within seconds, but he didn't. With only the ice pick to do it, he had to wait.

The girl had been running for some time now, nearly the better part of an hour since he had found her. She might be fast, but he was faster and he managed to keep up with her. Soon enough she would tire. She would need to stop and catch her breath, or check her assigned map, or perhaps she would simply have to find a hiding place. And then he would strike. Bring down his fist with the ice pick concealed. She would go down, there was no question about that.

Smiling to himself, Lee still managed to keep a close eye on the girl he was stalking. _Can't let her slip away, can you?_


	7. Hour 2: 50 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 2**

**50 Contestants Remaining**

**

* * *

**

Lee Howland, a.k.a. Boy #18, had nothing against the girl, but it was just something he had to do. This wasn't no game, this was survival. It was plain and simple as that. If he didn't do it, somebody else would anyway, and Lee did not intend to lose his prey to any opportunistic passersby. He came across the girl first, and he'd be damned if somebody decided to just come in with guns blazing and steal his kill. It wouldn't be fair, and despite the fact that nobody had insinuated that the game was by any standards fair, Lee believed in fair play. Even in a situation as fucked up as a Battle Royale, he still couldn't bear the thought of being cheated out of what he believed he rightfully deserved.

The point was, the poor girl that he was following, he had nothing against her at all. She was just the first person that he had come across since he had taken the ice pick from his pack and decided to play the game. It had been an hour, maybe an hour and a half into the game when he found her darting all around the place like a hummingbird. And if he wanted to get out of this game alive, he had to start somewhere.

It wasn't exactly stalking, but it did feel a whole lot like that.

It hadn't been easy trying to kill her though. It wasn't so much that he couldn't find the heart to do it, no, if anything he figured he wouldn't mind it a whole lot. If the only way not to end up in a body bag was by killing everybody else he knew from high school, that was what he would do. No, the real problem with it was that the girl that he was following, she was fast. It was hard enough tracking her down without giving himself away, let alone finding the right moment to strike. For the hour or so that he had been following her, she had never stopped for more than the fraction of a second, darting from place to place with nary a moment to rest. Hell, she could even read her map and send out text messages on one of those cell phones while she was running, how was that even possible?

From the look of things, she was starting to tire though. Her movements were becoming more and more erratic, but all the same Lee found it increasingly easier to keep up with her. Her swiftness that had made it so difficult to track her down early on was all but entirely gone now. She was slower, she was less agile, she could definitely be surprised. It was just a matter of time until she let her guard down long enough.

_So, this is it,_ he thought to himself as he tried to work up the nerve. _You gonna kill her. You gonna go over there and kill her in cold blood. You know her from school, you know, she's in National History with you. Man how fucked up is this? No, no, let's not, come on. You're killing her, that's it, you want to get out of here, you gotta kill them all. Come on..._

With the ice pick clutched in both hands above his head, Lee prepared to rush the girl. She was standing by a food stall that boasted a selection of sausages, and with her guard down, she was as easy a target as could be. She was vulnerable and disoriented to boot. It wouldn't be hard to take her by surprise. One quick strike and she would be fall to the ground, limp, twitching, dead. Her pack, splayed open to the side as it fell from her grasp. Its contents and the weapon inside free for him to take.

It wouldn't exactly be grave robbing, but it did feel a whole lot like that.

And it wasn't exactly now or never either, but as things would have it, it did felt a whole lot like that as well. He had to do it now, before the girl turned around, before he lost the only opportunity in the past hour or so. Stifling the urge to scream, Lee rushed at her with every intention to kill the girl. He swung the ice pick in a wild arc, hoping to impale her cleanly in the skull (or at least clip her enough to knock her senseless for the rest of her unnaturally short life). It was supposed to be clean and relatively bloodless, just one well-placed stab to bring her down. Unfortunately for him, things in a Battle Royale tended not to be as uncomplicated as he hoped for.

Hearing him emerge from the bushes, the girl whirled around to meet him with a great deal of uncertainty and fear. For the briefest of moments, she caught sight of him. With the flaps of his jacket spread open by the wind, Lee looked almost like a caped crusader to the girl, but there was no mistaking the look on his face. It was a mix of intensity and anger and pure determination. His hands overhead, he held something that could have been an invisible spike in the dark night, if not for the glint of light it reflected from the sausage stall's neon sign.

That was all she managed to see before the spike came down and skinned the side of her head. The strike came so close that a thin stripe of her scalp was torn away by the ice pick, but that seemed terribly inconsequential compared to the pain she felt when the ice pick ripped through her left ear. With a sickeningly wet sound, a small bit of bloody flesh fell away, while what remained on the left side of her head was little more than a ragged stump.

Catching sight of the injury up close as he damn near crashed into the girl, Lee cursed his luck. A misjudged step, a slip of his hand, maybe she shifted away at the last possible moment. Whatever it was, the strike that was intended to kill missed her by inches, only managing to wound the girl instead. But he couldn't allow the girl a chance to strike back, no, he had the element of surprise, he had the upper hand here.

As the girl reeled back from a mixture of pain and shock, Lee rushed her with all the force in his shoulder and slammed into her gut. Her expression of acute surprise blanked out as the air rushed out of her lungs. His body pressed close to hers, he could feel her breath on the side of his neck as her struggles slowly ceased. Not taking any chances, Lee gripped the ice pick tightly in one hand and slammed his fist hard on the back of her skull. Her eyes rolled backwards into her head as she fell to the ground, unconscious as the moment she was brought into the game.

Stumbling backwards with a bit of nausea, Lee let out a stifled cry as he took in the scene. The girl could be dead, perhaps not, either unconscious or dead. She was sprawled on her face with both arms outstretched, the ends of her fingers twitching with random nerve impulses. A twisted braid of dark blood ran down the side of her head, pooling on the ground where it was slowly soaked into the earth. Not three feet away lay a shriveled piece of her ear with a looped earring.

Forcing back vomit, he pressed two fingers to her neck just to make sure whether she was alive or not. There was a pulse, weak but definite. She was still alive, and that complicated things. She was alive, that meant he hadn't killed her yet, and if he wanted to play the game, he still had something to do. It wouldn't be all that hard to kill her. She was out cold, and with his ice pick a quick stab into her heart, her jugulars, her eye, could kill her pretty much in a matter of seconds. It wouldn't exactly be cold-blooded murder, would it, but it did feel a whole lot like that.

_Fuck it, this is the game, this is Battle Royale, man, murder is what you need to do to survive out here._

With a controlled breath, Lee held his ice pick against the bloodied spot at the back of her skull, where he had rammed down the wooden handle of his weapon and knocked her out. All it would take was one quick strike, thrust, and she'd be dead. _Can you do this? You gotta, you know that._

Her pack had fallen when he rushed her, and the cheap plastic zipper had burst open. Her food, packed inside silver Mylar bags inflated with nitrogen, water bottles, a compass that was now cracked in two halves, along with a pencil torch that was spilling a cone of light, all of it had fallen out on the ground. Food and water would come in useful, the torch too, when the batteries of his own ran dry. But what he was looking for was her weapon, the assigned weapon everybody would have. It had to be around here, maybe a gun and a box of bullets, a knife, even a grenade would be useful.

Noticing a roll of silver next to the girl's legs, he found a wry sense of amusement. It was a Battle Royale after all, no rules, no regulations, no fucking laws in this thing, and above all, no reason he couldn't have a little fun of his own. Killing could wait...

Bodily lifting the girl into the sausage stall, he couldn't help but marvel a bit as her head lolled. Her brown hair hung in tatters, dirtied and stained dark by blood at places. Even with an ear missing, Nadine Ellis, a.k.a. Girl #1, looked pretty. It was something he had never realized, but she really was pretty in a... different sort of way.

It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but it did feel a whole lot like that.

* * *

Leon Delgado, a.k.a. Boy #4, was on the hunt. It wasn't unexpected that the leading man (though more than a few would have called him a figurehead) of Malton's local teenage gang would be unopposed to the notion of killing the other forty-nine contestants for his sole survival. It wasn't unthinkable that he would do so ruthlessly and with considerable enthusiasm, or that he might even come to enjoy the kills. It wasn't unforeseen that he would come to terms with the game fairly soon and start his path of slaughter as soon as possible. In point of fact, nearly all of the other contestants had known this to some degree, and some had even gone out of their way to avoid the boy. As things would have it, Alexis Brightwell, a.k.a. Girl #5, Joshua Harding, a.k.a. Boy #12, and Paige Wilcox, a.k.a. Girl #19, had all come close to running into him in the first two hours of the game, but had all managed to elude notice.

They were lucky. Had they been caught by Leon, more likely than not they would have fallen as the first victims of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale. Though he had only been assigned a switchblade as his weapon, his practiced skill with knives coupled with physical strength was more than enough to kill all three of them in a fight. Instead, Leon found himself increasingly aggravated as he failed to come across even one would-be victim.

Things weren't going as well as he liked them. He was one of the top contenders of the Battle Royale, he knew that much, and it wasn't a stretch to say he could even win it all. Given the right set of circumstances, of course, which at present was definitely not the way he wanted it to be. Instead of a gun or anything halfway reliable, he had been given a knife, certainly a formidable weapon in most hands and an even deadlier one in his own, but that was nothing like the sheer power of a loaded gun. A blade can wound and mutilate and kill, but a bullet just plain kills. There was hardly a contest.

Still, he had to make do with what he had. A switchblade was in all likelihood better than some of the others' weapons, and as the instruction video had said, there was no reason he couldn't find a better weapon soon. All he had to do was find somebody, preferably somebody who had a gun and didn't know how to use it, and kill them. One quick slash under the chin, slit his throat and drain the blood like a goddamn pig. There was that much reassurance at least. A firearm might have been the better weapon in the long run, but all the same, a switchblade was a damn good one.

Flicking the blade in and out of its handle, partly out of habit and partly just to find something to do, Leon looked around as he kept up the walk. _Keep on the move, sooner or later you'll run into somebody. Still seventy hours for you to work your magic, nothing to worry about, is there? Plenty of time, plenty of other people around, by all rights there should be no shortage of casualties. Come on, there's gotta be somebody around here, where's everybody gone? It's like the end of the world. Probably is, at least to the bunch of us caught in this game. It's the end of the world, Lenny Bruce's not afraid, and you're feeling fine. You're feeling fine, absolutely fine, now if somebody will show their asses up and get killed, that'll be absolutely fine, won't it?_

"Yeah, it'll all be fine," Leon muttered under his breath. He wasn't usually the kind of person to talk to himself, but the prospect of the game tended to make everybody a little freaked out.

Stuffing his hands along with the closed switchblade into the pockets of his black leather jacket, Leon was beginning to wonder if there was something he wasn't aware of. He had been wandering around the circus area for what seemed like hours now, and he hadn't seen anybody except for the briefest of glimpses. There had got to be an explanation of some sort, maybe not a particularly good one or one that made sense, but he wanted an explanation all the same.

He rubbed his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his empty hand, the other still clutching his weapon. It didn't take a genius to know that the game was beginning to take its toll on him. The stress was getting to him, making him the slightest bit more nervous, paranoid even. He couldn't let that happen, no, it had to stop now before it could get worse. Chalk it up to him trying to get over the PTSD before it even began to trouble him. Chalk it up to him not accepting the reality of the situation. But mostly, chalk it up to him trying his best not to be weak.

And believe him, weakness was something that Leon knew very, very well.

* * *

Victoria Delgado had once been a regular visitor of the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting held every Friday night at the Malton League Clubhouse. Whether or not it would have eventually helped her to kick the habit could only be debated, as Victoria had been killed at the age of forty-four by a drunk driver. It had been a half hour past nine on a Friday night, and she had been returning from one of her routine meetings after a long discussion with a close friend. She had been carrying a wicker purse with a faulty buckle, and the impact of the red BMW automobile at nearly full speed had sent her possessions flying all over Mayfair Street. Some of those had been collected as evidence and later released to families of the deceased; others were lost in the commotion and could not be recovered. A sobriety chip might have been among her personal effects, but in any event it was as good as lost forever. Nobody could be sure whether or not the support groups had really helped Victoria with her addiction.

Least of all was her eldest and only surviving son, Leon, who frankly could not give any less of a rat's ass. He had affected support well enough, even escorting his mother to the League meetings every week despite the criminal dealings that went on that he could have been a part of. He had other motives though; the League housed a wide variety of addiction support groups that were not limited to alcohol. Nicotine. Cocaine. Narcotics. Sex, even. All sorts of junkies gathered at the League to partake in what Leon viewed as their own sort of circle jerk sessions.

All these people with their problems and addictions, they would get together because they were weak, and the weak always sought company.

And that was how he got to know these junkies very, very well. Chalk it up to him seeing these people as he led his mother into one of the many conference rooms at the League by the elbow none-too-gently. Chalk it up to their discussions drifting through the thin walls. But mostly, chalk it up to their dealings in the public toilets after every Friday night meeting.

The place usually stank to high hell on Fridays, and with good reason. It wasn't something that the janitors, the security guards, or that pretty blonde-head receptionist Jamie Lancaster liked to deal with, but it wasn't something that was in their control. Ever since the League's owners had expressed permission for the routine addiction support group meetings and even allowed them to reserve the facilities at a reasonably low rate, it had been one of the places most often traveled by recovering addicts. Not that there were a lot of them around town, mind you, most addicts had been too weak to really quit; more than anything else they were just putting on a show to mask their weakness. And that suited Leon very, very well.

In any event, the toilets closest to the second-floor conferences room – as well as the corridor outside – and pretty much the entire League clubhouse – served as frequent spots of visit. His mother's problem with alcohol hadn't been as serious, but some of the junkies that were trying to quit cold turkey proved to be as unwelcoming as he could possibly imagine. They tended to be alternatively sullen and irate, yes, but the worst was their withdrawal syndromes. The constant vomiting and diarrhea that went on in the toilets was enough to rouse the most pungent stench (aside from that one time the Food City that Jimmy Henderson owned lost power; all the frozen products thawed out over night and left an intense rotting stench in the store for the following week or so), and even with the extra shifts that the janitors at the League volunteered to on Fridays, well, it still smelled pretty damn bad.

It didn't bother him that much though, the smell was something he could stand somewhat. Still, standing just to the side of the small, dingy bathroom, Leon tried his best to get done with the small talk and down to business. His client wasn't letting him do so though, and that was beginning to piss him off.

"Alright, so come on, hand over the dough and I'll deliver the Oxy, don't make this take any longer than it has to be," he said as he held up a pill bottle.

"You know me, I've never given you any trouble," replied Teresa Fleming, a mild-mannered woman who worked at the town library, so composed and collected that you wouldn't have guessed she was a pill-popping addict. Lifting boxes of paperbacks and hardbacks gave her chronic back pains, and she turned to oxycodone for pain relief. One thing sort of led to another, and she was quickly a customer of Leon's at the League support meetings her near estranged son forced her to attend.

"Yeah, that'll cost you three hundred," Leon said as he reached out one open palm, demanding payment before handing over the goods.

"You're robbing me blind, you know," Teresa said with a tear trailing down her powdered cheek. "I'm on a limited income, I can't afford to keep on paying this... this ransom."

Leon did not even bother to come up with a reply, instead only looking her long and hard in the eye, his palm still out and open. Wiping her tears away with the back of her palm, Teresa turned a harsh eye on him as if angered that her plead had failed. Instead, she dug one hand in her purse and pulled out a folded stack of cash, pressing it into Leon's palm. She let go weakly, as if not knowing whether or not the act itself could make her faint then and there.

Leon smirked and tossed her the pill bottle, saying, "Thanks. Here's your pills."

Teresa yelped, snatching the bottle away with surprising grace before it could fall to the floor. Turning another hard look at the dealer, she turned her head up with her nostrils facing the front, then stomped out of the toilets. Leon paid her little mind, instead turning to deal with his next clients. At the League, there was never a shortage of them. Addicts who would let themselves be turned to support groups were weak. Weak addicts would give in eventually. It was a simple process.

Glenn Trudgen needed more vodka. So did Jillian Harlow. So did Larry Keating and Anthony Vera. Myra Mitchell needed more Vicodin for the broken wrist that had healed eighteen months ago. Chloe Redfield needed more smokes. Simon Wheeler needed more coke. Nicky Valverde needed more coke. Addison LeCroix wanted more Percodan for a fractured kneecap that never quite got a prescription. Anson Wheeler needed more wine, but only red because he claimed he was allergic to white wine. Anna Sullivan needed more coke. Christopher Wilmot needed more alcohol. So did Jack Stilton. So did Evelyn Johnson.

To all of them, Leon Delgado provided. With two full coolers that he hitched up from the trunk of his car, and a trench coat laden with baggies and cartons and bottles of drugs, he provided. And in return, he reaped payment in vast and unreasonable quantities.

Nicolette Grover needed sex. Of them all, she was quite probably the only one who didn't have to pay in return for satisfaction of her addiction. As long as his conquests were for the lack of better wording, hot enough, Leon was willing to provide sex as much and as often as they wanted. Nicolette, dirty dishwater blonde Nicolette, breasts swelling and pressed together, her long legs bare and clad only in red pumps, was definitely Leon's type of conquests.

"All right, folks, I'm nearly fresh out," Leon said as he doled out the last of his oxycondone. "Come back again next Friday, and next time come a bit earlier and bring a bit more cash and maybe I'll hook you up with some good shit. Nico, you stay right there, babe, I'll be with you in a moment."

He gathered up the last of his drained supplies and, wrapping it all up in his trench coat, stuffed all of it in one of his coolers. He made a quick hike down to his Ford Explorer, one of the few possessions that his father had given him and he hadn't discarded, before heading back up to the bathroom for that quickie. He fully expected to find Nicolette either already naked or halfway accomplishing it, but she was standing near the bathroom sinks with her miniskirt hanging off her fingers, her long blonde hair flung to one side of her head like a waterfall of blonde curls. She looked somewhat annoyed, though the hand that crept between her legs seemed to be keeping her sated for the time being.

"All right, who's this?" Nicolette asked furiously as she twiddled between her legs with one hand and pointed to the other person in the room with the other. Shrugging on his leather jacket, Leon looked over at the odd newcomer who hadn't been there just now.

"We need to talk," the newcomer said simply. He looked about the same age as Leon, maybe a few months younger, but it was clear that he was unaccustomed to being in the same room as a half-naked sexaholic chick. Standing with a bit of a slouch, the boy with the slick blond hair was somebody he had seen around Malton yet had never really bothered to associate with, and with good reason. The kid wasn't his kind of people, far from it really, if anything he was always kind of a loner from what Leon knew. Right now, he stood indignantly in the League's dingy second-floor bathroom with his fists balled up, his eyes arched in a wild sort of anger, yet at the same time Leon could see fear in them. _Fear, that's always something good to see in your enemies' eyes. Let's see what he wants..._

"You do know you're interrupting something, yes?" Leon asked with a grin that showed teeth.

"I don't give a shit," the kid practically spat, "you got my sister hooked on crack, I came here for some answers."

"Which one?" Leon asked simply.

The kid looked taken aback, his eyes bulging, the corners of his lips clenched. "Which – which what?"

"Which one's your sister?" Leon said, calm. "Look, kid, I deal a lot of stuff to a lot of people, you can't expect me to remember all of them by their siblings. Which one's your sister?"

"Anna Sullivan – what do you mean you don't even know her? She's my sister, you fucking sold her crack, you jackass!"

"Oh, bottle redhead, tall, wears a letterman jacket? Nice tits underneath?" Leon said with the smile of a memory, "Yeah, I know her, you got a problem with that?"

The three unlikely occupants of the second-floor public toilets at the League, each of them had their own agenda. Leon had all the confidence in the world that his business was sailing smoothly, and he had a slut with legs open waiting for him. Nicolette craved sex, plain and simple, whether it was an anonymous quickie or a romantic evening with her fiancé. The kid... actually, Leon had no idea what he wanted. He charged in here yelling some shit about his sister, but with Nico so close the smells were almost overwhelming, he couldn't give much of a shit.

"You can't do this," the kid said, suddenly sounding less convinced, less composed, "I'll call the cops, I'll let them know and they'll shut you down. My dad's a cop, he'll shut down you and your friends, he won't let this go on any longer."

"Kid, you don't want to try me," Leon said as he barked a humorless laugh. "Cops ain't got nothing on us in this age. The most you can do is get them to pay this place a visit, find abso-fucking-lutely nothing but a bunch of junkies circle jerking, charge a few for public indecency and go home with their tails between their legs. I know how this works, kid, I've been in the business longer than you take me for. So run off and find yourself a dick to suck, me and the lady have a little business of our own."

The kid's eyes bulged out, almost halfway indignant. Leon didn't quite know what reaction he expected, maybe a sputtering outburst, an act of aggression (he could take the kid down, easy), but in the end the kid just up and left. Without a word, he walked off and didn't so much as _stomp_, just the flaps of his leather shoes smacking against the piss-and-vomit stained tiles. Leon could almost hear that brain of his working overtime, trying to think of some way to get back at him. _Laughable._

"What was that?" Nicolette asked as she sucked gently on the tips of her fingers, the French manicured tips white and glossy with fluids. She sounded almost scared.

"Nothing, babe," Leon said as he pressed a rough kiss to the side of her bare neck. "Just leave it to me to handle, kid doesn't know what the fuck he's messing with. Chalk it up to sheer stupidity, but I think I've got this all settled. Now you just spread those legs wide as they'll go, 'cause I'm thinking I might go rough today..."

With an exhale of air from her lungs, Nicolette let her latest hook up go to town.

* * *

Leon saw the kid from afar as he moved through the fairgrounds. The weird blond kid, the one who had barged into the League's public toilets one day and kept yelling about his sister, he was there in this game too. Not knowing him by name, Leon had no idea he was one of the contestants as well. It wasn't like it would have much bearing in the grand scheme of things, but in the end it didn't matter one bit. It didn't matter one bit because he was here to kill everybody else, and that was it. No questions asked.

The kid was sitting, and that was strange because he was sitting just out there, in the middle of the ground. His duffel bag dumped next to him, an olive drab lump like he had half a human body hidden under a dark green canvas. It suddenly occurred to Leon that he could very well end up being killed by the kid, but the thought didn't last long.

Instead, he approached as quietly as possible. _First kill, don't mess this up. Sneak up from behind, draw the knife across his throat, one quick motion._

His switchblade aimed high and angled, Leon lashed out and made to stab the kid. Had the strike been any faster, it would have slipped into the back of his neck with a bitter crack, partially severing his spine and rendering him paralyzed to whatever Leon did next. Instead, the kid whipped around just in time to intercept the strike with something in his hands. With a dull _thunk_, the blade sank into something plastic and rectangular, and as the kid spun to the side, the switchblade was ripped from Leon's hand.

"You gonna kill me?" said Mallick Sullivan, a.k.a. Boy #11, rather angrily. In his hand, he held what looked like a VCR tape, the old-fashioned kind that had long been abandoned in favor of DVDs and blu-rays. Wedged squarely in the middle was his switchblade, still vibrating with leftover momentum.

Leon did not bother to reply; he simply rushed the kid with his shoulder and hoped to take him off guard. Mallick was faster by the fraction of a second, jumping to the side as Leon rushed by. Getting to their feet, the two separated and stood, staring down each other.

"I'll take that as a yes," Mallick said as he gripped the switchblade and ripped it out of the VCR tape.

Without waiting for another word, the two leapt at each other with fists swinging. Leon landed a flurry of blows at Mallick's mid-section, knocking the wind out of him, moments before Mallick's fist connected with the side of his head and jolted his world into darkness. For a moment all he saw were pink stars, but shaking his head, he recovered just in time to parry off another blow that was intended to break his nose. His elbow jolted with pain as it took the brunt of the force behind the blow, but it was preferable to having his face broken.

Gasping for breath, Leon reached out and forced Mallick away, affording him some time to think. The kid was fighting back, that was not good. He appeared to be quite the fighter, that wasn't good either, but he could work with that. It wasn't impossible to overpower him; Leon was more than an authentic bruiser after all. But what griped him most was that he lost his weapon to the kid in an untimely strike. Without his switchblade, he was essentially unarmed. He was unguarded. He was powerless. He was... weak.

"You want to think that again? You don't even have a weapon now, still think you can take me down?" Mallick asked as he brandished the switchblade.

"Fuck you," Leon spat out as he prepared to strike again. Anybody playing by a more conservative strategy would probably have ran away and hoped for better luck next time, but not him. No, Leon didn't give up, simple as that. Weak people give up. Not him. _No room for errors, just take the little fucker out, knock him out and take care of the rest later._

For some time, they still stood circling each other in defensive stances. Leon almost wanted to say something else, but swallowed it down. Just as well, as Mallick decided to strike that exact moment. With the switchblade angled downwards, he made to stab him in the middle of his chest. Leon tried to block it off with his arm, but thought better in that split second and swung his elbow sideways instead. The blow collided with Mallick's grip and sent the switchblade spinning off, but now Mallick was unarmed as well. They were on equal footing, and Leon could fix this. He slapped Mallick's clumsy punch to the side, and, gripping him by the shoulders, kneed him precisely in the crotch.

The attack went off as well as he could hoped, getting Mallick to stumble back as he howled in pain. Having had his nether regions bruised almost on a regular basis (gang fighting was unsurprisingly dirty; being an all around jackass in the gang scene afforded him more than a few enemies), Leon knew the effect of it and it wasn't an enjoyable sensation. Still, he was glad he wasn't on the receiving end of it. Instead, he took the moment to land a vicious kick at his shin that sounded almost like a crack. Didn't quite break bone, but it did get him down for the count.

Standing over the other boy, Leon could see he was clearly incapacitated, probably in too much pain to recover and strike back. _Wonderful._

He looked around for the switchblade that had fallen out of Mallick's grip, and spotted it next to a trash can. Strolling over to pick it up, Leon turned around and said, "Well, that went easier than I thought it's gonna go."

In a moment that would make this moment one of this season's early highlights (though far from the memorable given what was coming up, it still held a certain significance for the fans), he walked over to where Mallick lay prone and prepared to make the kill once and for all, and ended up getting a bullet in his thigh for his troubles. It wasn't Mallick who had wounded him; the shot came almost literally out of nowhere. Had either of them been of sounder mind, they would have noticed the westward bushes rustling as a third contestant decided to get the hell out of dodge.

Instead, Leon fell to his knees as blood spurted out of the wound. For the first time since he came into the Battle Royale, he screamed in great pain and a little fear as he dropped the switchblade and clapped his hands to his thigh, feeling blood spurt out of the wound (_spurting, seriously spurting, artery's hit, not good_). Then his fingers sank into the entry wound of the bullet, and strangely enough that grossed him out more than it hurt. He was actually feeling the inside of his body. Recoiling, he whipped his fingers out with a comparatively mild splatter of blood. The pain didn't really start to hit until that point.

For a moment, he almost cried for his mother.

* * *

Daphne Reagan, a.k.a. Girl #25, had just shot another human being, of that she was certain. It wasn't like with Caleb, that first time she didn't even know if she had really hit him or not. She was pretty confident she had at least grazed him, but that wasn't important now. What was important, however, was that she was fairly certain (_absolutely certain_) she had just shot Leon in the leg. There was that loud gunshot noise, and she handled the recoil a bit better this time. And then she saw the blood. It looked like a little red rose was blooming on his thigh for a second, then the blood just kept spilling out, staining his leg a dark red. It was almost surreal.

She could stay, kill that other boy even, but no. Actually shooting him in the thigh was bad enough, there was no point in putting herself in any further risk. Sure, the boy was on the ground, clearly incapacitated, and both of them were essentially weaponless, but not taking risks meant she wouldn't be dying any time soon. Not to mention the bullet wound looked damn bad, Leon will be bleeding out soon enough and with enough hope, he'll finish off the kid as he goes. _That would be nice._

_You're like Catwoman now_, the thought occurred to her. Daphne, the heroine. No, villainess was more like it. She pictured herself as the femme fatale, the badass girl, the Bond chick who could kick ass. She wondered how the video editors of the game would be painting her as. _Hopefully not a redshirt. Girl, you're doing amazing._

Up until the moment she shot Leon, she had never really believed that she could really win the game. She had told herself that she could win, of course, but seeing Leon fall to his knees and scream his head off was the first time she truly believed it. _You can win. You can win this thing, you can, you really can..._

The mental pep talk was cut short as a particularly large branch swatted her on the forehead as she ran past. _Ouch. Didn't think this through, did you?_

The adrenaline from the moment was amazing, running with wind whipping her short hair back felt good too, but it was time to go back to being careful now. She hadn't been while she was running away. She didn't check the surroundings for anybody else. She didn't make sure neither Leon nor the guy on the ground had another weapon. She didn't even listen around. _Mistakes. They might not kill you just yet, but one of them will. Stay alert. Frosty._

Still, she couldn't help but smile to herself as she crept away.

* * *

Though he was still in extreme pain, Mallick was still not prepared to back down. He forced himself up on one arm, glaring intensely yet still with pain at the other boy. He wasn't going to give up that easily, no, ain't gonna happen to the son of a sheriff. The pain was a problem, but he could overcome that. Losing his recently gained weapon was a problem, but it was lying there for him to pick up and Leon wasn't in any condition to fight back. The notion that he could potentially be impotent now was another troubling thought, but he'd worry about it later.

Somebody had fired at them, and had gotten Leon in the thigh. That was an amazing bit of fortune for him, since he was quite sure that the guy would have killed him if he was still on his feet now. _But looks like that's not happening, is it?_

With a bit of a forced smile that didn't even look halfway right, he regarded the downed boy. Leon looked like an utter mess, writhing in pain as he clutched the wound on his thigh. He had vomited a slight bit (though it seemed he wasn't aware of that), dirtying the front of his shirt. The blood had almost soaked his entire leg a deep red, and from what he could see the bullet wound looked nasty. If it had been anybody else, Mallick might have been able to convene the slightest bit of sympathy, but not for him.

Nobody said he had to be compassionate. The guy deserved the worst that was coming to him. If he had been the one with the gun, he would have shot the guy just about six inches south of his sternum. Liver shot, bleed out and die a painful death. With what looked like a wound that bore through his femoral artery, Leon would be dead in minutes.

_No, this guy's the worst. He's gotta suffer._

He tried to find the switchblade, but couldn't. It was definitely somewhere, he just couldn't spot it in the moment. It didn't matter. Seeing the broken VCR tape with its spool of tape spilled out in loops, he had a different idea.

As a kid he'd gotten himself into serious trouble once when he fiddled around with the VCR cassettes and ruined a good many of them by pulling out handfuls of black tape. Some of those tapes included footage of family gatherings that were irretrievable, others were adult features that his father favored, but in the end all of them were essentially identical. The magnetic tape came out easily enough, handfuls of dusty black plastic that stretched rather than tear. As a five year old, he had great fun turning his father's fond memories of his birth and a Japanese fetish film to little more than piles of black string. His fingers had been stained black by magnetic powder when his dad came home.

What he remembered most was the magnetic tape. When he pulled it in different ends, it lengthened and it thinned – but it didn't tear. He ended up with a lot of what was essentially handmade fishing wire. _Enough to finish him off? Maybe._

Ripping the magnetic tape out of the VCR tape as fast as he could, he yanked at it for a quick minute until he had enough length to do the job and more. Deftly, he wrapped the ends of the makeshift wire around his hands, then went up to the dying boy with every intention to make him suffer. _Think of it as the opposite of a mercy kill... it ain't gonna be pleasant, Delly my boy._

"How d'you like this?" Mallick almost grinned as he said, wrapping the wire around Leon's neck. He wasn't dead yet and might've been in shock, but cutting his air supply had the expected effect. His eyes bulged out as he gasped for breath. His tongue was undoubtedly beginning to swell as the blood collected. His face, turning purple with burst capillaries. His eyes going bloodshot and then plain pink. All the symptoms. He struggled, arms and legs flailing. That got even more blood around and some of it on him as well, but he didn't care because the bastard was _suffering_.

Nobody told him he couldn't be sadistic. The only thing that Mallick lamented was that he couldn't find the damn knife.

Even with a bullet wound that would have been fatal in the hands of a skilled surgeon, Leon died slowly and painfully. His resilience was commendable; not until the fourth minute since he began asphyxiating had he actually died. Of course, it was nothing compared to some of the deaths that were soon to come, but for the moment, Mallick and a great part of the viewing audience reveled (not so much those who had been betting on the teenage delinquent, since he had gone out so soon he could barely die any earlier). It was the first time life had been robbed from a contestant of the Ninth United States Annual Battle Royale. More were sure to follow in the following seventy hours.


	8. Hour 3: 49 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 3**

**49 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

When Clara Bellucci, a.k.a. Girl #11, first set off in rescue of her friend, she hadn't thought it through. She had assumed it wouldn't be difficult to dodge her way out of trouble, but as it turned out the journey was more perilous than she had previously thought. On the way here, she had narrowly avoided Tommy McLaren, a.k.a. Boy #8, a fiercely intense guy by many accounts, had somebody shoot at her and nearly hit her in the chest (in reality Alexis Brightwell, a.k.a. Girl #5, had fired off the shot instinctively as soon as she spotted somebody making their way near; it didn't culminate into anything significant as both girls ran away immediately after), and was even witness to a brief gunfight between Rick Moretti, a.k.a. Boy #2, and one of the other contestants. She was fortunate enough that neither noticed her as she ran away again, but seeing all that in the span of an hour and a half was more than enough to shake the girl up.

Intending to rescue her friend from whatever danger that had prompted her to send a text message for help, Clara had gotten hopelessly lost as well. The text message said Marla was in Kiddie Land, in zone G4 of the map grid if she interpreted it right. Exactly where she was now, she wasn't quite sure, but according to the big Kiddie Land sign she couldn't be far. Now if only she could find the fast food restaurant Marla said she was in.

It was still quite dark, dark enough that she couldn't tell what time it was without shining her pencil torch on her watch. Just a bit after three, still a few hours until the sky would begin to light up and offer her some degree of clarity. Until then, she would have to wander around on her own. The map was no help, the torch barely any if she didn't want to draw attention to herself. Really, the only thing she could depend on was herself.

"Gotta be around here," she muttered to herself as she looked around once more.

Had she looked a bit more carefully in the slightest bit more light, she would have seen the sign of a Burger Tank behind a carousel ride that was collecting dust. Marla Thompson, a.k.a. Girl #18, hid inside with some fear, wondering whether or not her friend was indeed going to arrive. Instead, Clara only saw the large shapes that crept in the darkness, and, feeling a sudden fear grip her heart, took off running once again. She would eventually come back to the location and find the Burger Tank, but for the time being all she could do was to keep on the move. _Just keep running, as long as you're going somewhere you'll be fine. Whole lotta folks, you better run faster..._

With a grim smile, she nearly ran into the hold of Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, as he gripped her forearm tightly. She recoiled immediately with a shrill scream, slapping the boy away with all the strength she could muster. Her other hand snaked to her pocket and whipped out her box cutter, lashing out immediately in an act of defense. Fortunately for Andrew, he had jumped back far enough that the attack could only threaten rather than maim.

"Watch it," he hissed, then immediately added, "Have you seen Nadine around, or anybody you think might be her?"

The night shrouded everything with darkness and an unsettling silence that was now broken, but even so Clara could identify the stranger she had run into. He wasn't exactly a stranger, in fact; Andrew was one of the people she knew and might even refer to as a friend on a good day. Like most girls at Malton District High School, she knew him only as Nadine's doting boyfriend. But hearing him ask about Nadine, that had to be genuine, right? She didn't think he was going to attack her or anything, most likely he was just trying to find his girlfriend and protect her until the end of the game, but all the same she wouldn't let her guard down.

"Nope, haven't," she said, a bit too quickly.

"I see," Andrew said, sounding disappointed and slightly bitter, "in that case will you let me know if you come across her? Just use the phone they gave you, send me a text and let me know when and where you saw her, please? Whether she's still... you know, alive?"

It might have come across as unsettling in a way to anybody else, that he wanted to see his girlfriend even if she was dead and defiled, but Clara understood. She was a hopeless romantic herself, one of the worst kind who believed in Romeo and Juliet and would sooner kill herself than be with somebody she didn't want to. The very worst kind, really. It was like her mama had always said as she had brushed her hair, _everybody should die happy, or at least with somebody they love._

_And mama's right y'know. Everybody should die with their loved ones, not stuck out here on some godforsaken island where they're made to kill each other. That just ain't right._

"I don't know where she is, but I'll keep an eye out and let you know if I see her," Clara replied with a slight nervous smile, "I honestly don't think I'll happen to bump into her, seeing how I won't be running around for long if I can help it, but if that does happen I'll let you know, and I'll tell everybody I see to keep an eye out for her, sounds good?"

"That sounds... great, actually," Andrew said gratefully, "thanks for doing that, really, I'm so grateful you have no idea. Thanks so much for that, thank you, really, thank you!"

Clara was fairly certain she would have been as thankful as Andrew was had he made the same promise to her (if she had a boyfriend, that was; Clara had a few fun things going on, but not really a long-term boyfriend she had any level of commitment to). It was just so... romantic. If the entire game was merely a setting of a bad romance novel, she probably would have enjoyed it greatly. It wasn't though, and as much as Clara wanted to see it in a romantic light, she couldn't pretend it was anything but horrifying. No, not at all, Battle Royale was dark, Battle Royale was terror, as much humanity might come out of it, there was no denying it was horrible.

"I'll just be on my way then," Clara smiled and said.

"I'll do the same," Andrew said as he turned and ran off for a couple of steps, turned around again and shouted once more, "THANK YOU SO MUCH!"

"Keep it down, you'll get us killed!" Clara warned back, but even still she couldn't help but yell a bit. Her brief encounter with Andrew had heightened her spirits surprisingly. It was simply... invigorating, she felt as though a new energy had been injected in her. She felt almost equipped to take on anything now.

Going back the way she came, she doubled around the entrance of a rickety wooden roller coaster and a miniature free fall ride. As she ran by a game stall that offered stuffed crocodile dolls as prizes for knocking down milk bottles, she missed the boy that was hiding in there. It was at the same time her best and worst piece of luck in the entire game that he had conveniently dozed off and couldn't blast her square in the back of her head with his Heckler & Koch PSG1 semi-automatic rifle. Sure, that would have taken her down early on as the second casualty of the game, but she would have been killed instantly and been spared a great deal of pain and anguish that was to follow.

Her second worst piece of luck was finding the Burger Tank restaurant and, after a moment of deliberation, entering it.

* * *

Marla almost didn't notice the sound of somebody forcing their way through the glass doors out front because she had been cooking. Well, it wasn't so much cooking as dumping a load of chicken nuggets into the deep fryer and hoping it turns out halfway edible, but they didn't smell like she would be dying of salmonella if she ate them. It was a scent that was more grease than anything else, but with her stomach freshly emptied when she threw up in the sink, she could really use some comfort food.

Pulling out paper containers to use as makeshift bowls, she was almost looking forward to the meal. Hell, she even found a bunch of lettuce still fresh in the vegetable crisper, with some effort she could even make herself an entire burger. _Now doesn't that sound good? A moment on the lips, forever on the lips, yeah, but damn wouldn't that feel good to have a burger in your belly._

She was almost even beginning to have some illusion of security in the kitchens. The tiled walls were solid enough that she could expect no surprises from them, no arms reaching through them to grip her certainly. The open area near the counter was a problem, but she mostly stayed at the back and that solved it rather nicely. Nobody could see her from outside, nobody could reach in and bludgeon her, and with the back door padlocked, nobody could enter the fast food restaurant unless through the easily visible front doors. That was good, wasn't it? It wasn't the best arrangement, certainly not the most sheltered location on the island, but it was pretty damn good for what she could find.

The two shots had blown any pretense of that away. She had been in the kitchens for barely an hour when somebody invaded her safe space. She didn't know whom it was, but that person had fired off two quick shots that blew away more than kitchen equipment. The first shot took out the ketchup dispenser and splattered red goop all over the stainless steel counter, the second blasting the top off a cup of coke she had poured herself. She had ducked and leapt behind the counters, and had remained there as the sniper outside sent lead at her at periodic intervals. The shots weren't aimed, some of them striking the opposite kitchen wall far away from where she had been, and meant to intimidate rather than really kill.

Even so, she could tell she was in deep trouble. She had sent out a couple texts, asked for help and hoped somebody, anybody would come, yet nothing. And then... out of nowhere, the shots stopped coming. It took a while before she was willing to stick a hand out quickly to test, and a longer while before she poked her head out and found herself to be safe. As safe as she could be in a Battle Royale, at least. Once she had realized that, she quickly moved to the back of the kitchens. The shots could still hit her, there were bullet holes buried into the walls and equipment scattered all around by the shots, but it was safer at the very least. And it looked like the sniper had moved on._ Still, that was pretty dangerous, wasn't it? Could've been your head with the top blasted off._

It was supposed to be safe now. Nobody should be outside, the sniper had moved on and there was no indication that she was hiding here. Nobody could know she was in here, right? Unless one of the people she had asked help from ended up being not so friendly after all. That was always a distinct possibility, oh god, why hadn't she accounted for that?

Oh dear god. She was going to die.

_Well, not without a fight_, she thought as she reached for the Walther P99 9mm pistol that she had been assigned. The instruction manual had given her instructions that she weren't sure would even help her use it properly, but it was time to test them. _Safety off, all right, all signs ready to go._

Hiding in plain sight was a stupid mistake on her part, but it hadn't been fatal. This one, however, would certainly be.

* * *

It was, unfortunately for Clara, an imperfect shot. The bullet blasted by her side and struck the glass door just as she stepped into the dining area of the Burger Tank. Clara was only aware of a very loud noise, almost like a gunshot going off in close proximity, before the glass behind her shattered into a million tiny cubes. She screamed and stepped back on instinct, tripping over her own feet and falling flat on her behind. Her ears were still ringing as she pressed her palms to the floor and tried to push herself up, yet only managing to cut up her palms rather badly. _There's red all over your palms, you've been shot? No pain though, are you shot or not?_

The cutter had fallen from her hands and was forgotten as she checked herself over to make sure she hadn't been shot. A cursory glance confirmed that any blood was only from the superficial cuts on her palms, and she said to the unknown shouter, "Please, I'm not gonna do anything, Marla? Is that you?"

A moment of stunned silence, a small metal click (_not the trigger again_), then: "Who's this? Kim?"

"No, it's Clara!" she practically screamed as she ran in excitedly. "It's Clara, I came here to see if you were in trouble, you're all right, aren't you?"

"Clara!" Marla screamed back happily from the back of the kitchens, "I'm fine! Quick, come in here, there's some guy outside who's been shooting at me, I don't know if he's really gone but we should probably stay on the safe side."

"Yeah, that'd be smart," Clara replied as she was reminded of the various close calls she'd had earlier. _Tommy and Rick, and there were at least two other people shooting out there, third including this new mystery man. Yeah, safety's smart, always stay safe, remember?_

Following her friend's lead, she walked into the Burger Tank's small kitchen area. It was a small place, to say the least, cramped enough that the mere thought of working in such close proximity to boiling oil and swinging cleavers with half a dozen other barely legal teenagers was enough to repulse her. Just as well, it wasn't like she would ever get to even apply for a job flipping burgers. _You're dying, don't forget that, you ain't gonna get out of this ever, this Battle Royale will be the death of you._

"So what've you been up to?" Marla asked as she plopped several more uncooked chicken nuggets into the deep fryer with a slight hiss.

Coming up next to the deep fryer tentatively, Clara watched as the chunks of meat cooked in a boiling eddy of oil. The shapeless, colorless blobs of meat swirled around bubbling in hot oil, almost as if they were writhing in pain. It was the only actual food (as far as Burger Tank could classify as real food) she had seen aside from the field rations in their packs, yet for some reason it repulsed her. The thought of tasting that bland meat was enough to make her nauseous. _God, this is absolutely disgusting. Is that even food?_

"Not much," she replied.

"You want some?" Marla asked as she grabbed a handful of paper napkins to soak up the residue oil on her first batch of chicken nuggets. "I know Burger Tank stuff tastes terrible, but it's gotta be better than that MRE stuff we got. That stuff tastes just like cardboard, this tastes at least like wet tissue. I'd love a good Kahuna Burger just like anybody else, but I don't think there's actually one on this island. This is about the best we'll get."

She plucked a chicken nugget out of Marla's plate just to be polite, intending to sneak it back into the deep fryer as soon as she had her back turned. It was as greasy as it looked, and had the texture of a wet but very firm sponge.

"So you want to know what happened on my way here, huh?" Clara asked as she casually let the nugget slip back into the deep fryer.

"Yeah, did you run into anybody else?" Marla replied.

"Yeah, I ran into Rick and Tommy, don't think they saw me though, and there were these two people who were also toting guns," Clara listed off her fingers, "oh, and Andrew McFarland, he asked me to keep an eye out for Nadine, you haven't seen her around, have you?"

"Not since we were at the roller coaster," Marla said. "I didn't see anybody except Paige who came right after me, and that was really early on. The only guy was the one who was shooting at me, and I really think he's gone already."

"Let's hope so," Clara said as she sank down to sit on the floor. "Dear god, let's hope so."

* * *

Drake Farrell, a.k.a. Boy #20, was awaken by a sound of thunder.

In reality it was the gunshot that Marla had fired off when Clara breached into her safety zone, and though it did not do any tangible damage, it had roused Drake from his slumber and sparked the events into motion. Having been targeting the brunette who he had seen gone into the fast food restaurant, he had taken the sniper rifle that they provided him with and started gunning her down. None of his shots came even remotely close, but after all he was only starting to get adept at firing an actual rifle. That was the only part that prevented him from taking it all, he had never fired a gun before in his life. Knives, he could work with, bludgeons too, but he was surprisingly unskilled at handling a firearm.

Pulling that rifle out of his assigned pack, he had wanted to take it and successively shoot each of the five person who came out after him. Just one bullet each, to the head maybe, or the heart. That would have given him a great advantage earlier on, having taken out one-tenth of the contestant pool in the first hour alone would have ensured that there was no question that he would win. Yeah, that would have been great, but the biggest and only problem was that he couldn't operate a rifle.

The instruction manual had certainly helped with that, but that wasn't all. The manual taught him exactly how to operate a Heckler & Koch PSG1 semi-automatic rifle, but it couldn't give him the skill that came exclusively with experience. And most importantly, of that he had none. He had no experience at all.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't start trying in this game. Firing upon that brunette girl would be a great start, and with some hope he could gun her down in short time. Then he could move on to other prey, other contestants who could be taken down. Find the highest point of the island and start firing down at the people running around the park, the beaches, the hotel, the woods. It would be so easy...

But first, he had to take care of the girl.

Reloading his rifle, he measured the ammunition that he had left. It wasn't enough, by any count. He had wasted too many bullets trying to take down the girl, and all he did was blow out the windows to the Burger Tank. That wasn't good. If he wanted to take care of the rest of the contestants, he had to start conserving what remained of his ammunition. _Can't waste any more of your bullets just spraying them out like this, can you? No, you wanna do this, you gotta make this up close and personal. Just one shot to the head, another for her friend that just went in._

Leaping over the counter of the milk bottle game stall, Drake readied his rifle. It was time to show some bitches that he meant business.

* * *

Drake fired off two quick shots as he barged through the shattered glass door into the dining area of the Burger Tank restaurant. Neither of them hit the girls hiding in the back, but all the same it scared the hell out of them. These shots were different from the ones earlier, they were louder and with a lot more force behind them. These shots were fired off in close range. Somebody was in the house, and that person meant business.

Clara reacted by screaming at the top of her lungs; Marla didn't think and simply bounded for the back door. She grabbed Clara by the arm and tried to pull her away, but she had been too stunned to react. Instead, Marla nearly had to wrestle her to the ground to even get her to move.

"Come on, get your ass moving!" she practically screamed in Clara's ear. _Pistol, pistol, where's my pistol? Can't find it when you gotta fight back, great, just great._

Finding her gun on the counter, she snatched it up and tried to fire back, but there was nothing but a soft click. _Safety's on, you idiot, you put it on when Clara came in, of course there's not gonna be anything, thumb the safety off and shoot that bastard!_

Through tears that had fallen without her knowing it, Clara could make out the dark figure in the corner of the dining area, firing shot after shot at the two. Miraculously, all of the four shots missed the two girls, only striking the tiled back wall of the kitchen. That kind of luck did not persist as his next shot blasted flesh and blood from her shoulder. Sharp pain erupted down her arm as she fell to the side, staring with horror at the horrendous wound that used to be the joint of her right arm. The shot had struck her with great drive behind it, ripping deep enough that she could see bone and then out all the way. In utter fascination, she tried to move her fingers and could only quiver them. It was as if the feeling had gone entirely out of her arm...

The next shot buried in the side of her hip, jolting her back into the real world. Only then did she start screaming in earnest, causing Marla to look over and find her friend rapidly going into shock. She mouthed a quick 'oh my god' before letting go of the door handle and jumping to her friend's aid.

The pistol was all but forgotten as she jammed it back in her holster.

"Clara, oh my god you're bleeding so much!" Marla blurted as she pressed her bare hands to the wound in a panicked attempt to stop the bleeding. It didn't even come close to working, only getting Clara to scream all the louder.

The floor was slick with dark blood as she tried to stand up, and only as her heel slipped on the tiles did she notice the rich stench of blood in the kitchen. She gripped Clara by her uninjured arm, pulling the girl to her feet as she tried to help her get away from the shooter. Taking advantage of the brief respite as Drake was forced to reload quickly, she pulled out her pistol and fired off three quick shots that damaged the padlock enough for it to fall to the floor. She was mindful that the ricochets could have killed her, yet there wasn't really anything else she could do.

"I'm so sorry, really," she pleaded, hoping Clara would understand as she ripped the back door open and bounded outside. The night air greeted her with an abrupt chill, gripping her as though all the fear until that point had just taken hold.

Marla fired the last few shots back at her attacker in futile hope of injuring him (she hadn't), then sprinted away as fast as her legs would take her. The fairgrounds would provide enough cover that he couldn't just shoot her in the back as she ran away, and as bad as it sounded, Clara would serve to delay him one way or the other. The eastern exit wasn't far away; once she got there she could run off into the woods, lose herself forever. Who knew, it could be safer in there. Clara would have wanted her to get away unharmed, right? She did set off to rescue her in the first place.

Still, try as she might, she couldn't shake from her mind the fact that she had left her friend for dead.

* * *

The girl was still fighting back. It was beyond any semblance of logic, but for some reason she was still kicking long after she should have been dead. The girl had taken a slug in the shoulder, shattering her shoulder blade and perforating her brachial artery with bone and bullet fragments at four places, including two farther down the arm, and had lost pints of blood as a result. Suffice to say, by all rights she should have been dead. Instead, she was still alive and waving her box cutter around in an attempt to take down her attacker.

And unfortunately for Drake, she was doing a helluva job of it. Like any natural predator, she had gone for the neck, intending to sever the jugular arteries and bring about a quick death, but Drake was clever enough to stay just far enough away that the blade caught nothing but thin air.

He grabbed her uninjured arm as it swiped past and shoved it aside, then when she tried a second attack, slammed her arm away with the butt of his rifle. Not only did the strike send her arm careening to the side, it also sent a jolt of paralysis down her arm as it slammed against the edge of the deep fryer. She cried out in pain as the box cutter fell out of her grasp into the boiling oil, and instinctively reached in to recover it. The only reason she had made such a terrible mistake was because she wasn't in the right mental state, but in any event she had effectively dunked her arm in oil that was heated to over three hundred and fifty degrees.

The pain could only be described as excruciating for the brief seconds before her nerve endings were charred away. Finally find the strength to jerk her arm away, she did so and scattered droplets of scalding oil over herself. She stared down in horror as the flesh of her arm continued to cook and sizzle in front of her eyes, and the smell of sweet pork began to fill the kitchen. It reminded her of the barbecues her papa used to hold on occasion, when they'd sear slabs of ribs on flaming coals. The smell was almost exactly like that, and it sickened her to the stomach.

Unable to hold off the flow of vomit, she turned her head aside and threw up into the metal sink next to the deep fryer. With her eyes turned, she saw nothing as Drake gripped the back of her head and forced her head into the vat of oil.

She had only a millisecond to scream before the boiling oil seared its way down her throat and cut off any trace of air she had. The sensation in her tongue was seared away as she tried to vomit the hot liquid out of her throat, but finding that impossible as her throat closed up. She clawed desperately at her face, hardly mindful that she was dousing oil all over her arms again as well, but the pain was alternatively intense and numb. The oil burns had singed away the surface of her skin, exposing the flesh underneath and immediately scalding them into raw, painful flesh.

Pulling her fingers from her face, she tore free strips of skin. Her struggles didn't last long, quickly she started going into shock as her body began to convulse. Spasms jerked her body around until she could no longer even tell what direction she was facing. Her eyes, milky and appearing crusted over, rolled back into her skull as her stomach purged again and again, trapping semi-digested food and burning holes in her esophagus. All semblances of coherent thought left her mind, though by some miracle her brain activity popped up with the last line she could recall before every sense flared away.

_Everybody should die happy, or at least not unloved. Guess this is it for you..._

Drake waited until her death throes had come and gone before he finally let go. Her body gave one last spasm before slipping to the floor, her severely burnt arms and face appearing as if a flesh-eating virus had gotten to her. He had considered spending one more bullet to ensure that she was dead, but there wouldn't be a point in wasting any more ammunition on somebody who was either dead or dying. The brunette had gotten away, but he could track her down and spend his remaining rounds in a more productive manner.

The girl's struggles had flung droplets of scalding oil over the back of his hands. At that time he had been too intent on keeping her head down to notice, but now they were really beginning to sting like a bitch. Noticing a first aid cabinet at the back of the kitchen, he started to rummage for something to ease the goddamn itch.


	9. Hour 4: 48 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 4**

**48 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

It surprised her as Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, realized what she missed the most weren't her friends or her family. As a contestant of the Battle Royale, she had essentially zero contact with the outside world, and for all she knew her parents and her little sister could have all been shot dead by a squadron of soldiers. As well, she had deliberately avoided seeking out any of the girls in her clique, fearing that one of them harbored ill intentions and would plot to turn against her. Instead she had remained on her own, wandering the fairgrounds and wishing she had television to watch.

It had been ages since she could settle down in a couch with a bowl of unbuttered popcorn (_gotta keep your figure after all_) and stay in front of the television screen for the better part of a Friday night. Comedy dramas were her favorite, but she could settle for almost anything as long as it brought the laughs and romance in the right proportions. It wasn't what people expected a cheerleader would spend her night doing, much less the captain of the team, but she was content to watch the antics of Ross and Rachel as they kept up their on-again-off-again romance. None of her friends knew anything about the collection of romantic comedy DVDs in the locked drawer of her wardrobe, but then again Helen didn't exactly want it found out. Nobody expected the head cheerleader to take such an interest in _Golden Girls_, and Helen didn't expect anybody would care for her hobbies at home anyway.

There wasn't any television in the amusement park as far as she could tell. The closest thing was the dynamic theater with the widescreen adventure movies and moving chairs. There would probably be television sets in the hotel rooms or one of the cabins in the woods, but she didn't know if it was safe to head out. The amusement park was safer as far as she was concerned. In the mean time, she could tolerate the lack of television.

Instead, she focused on seeking out her second greatest interest, her boyfriend Colby Trent, a.k.a. Boy #13.

They had gotten together in the most natural of ways, making out and quickly progressing through all the bases after school as she 'consoled' Colby on his latest break up with that little blonde prude. As it turned out, Colby was not only handsome and had a totally toned physique, but turned out to be quite the sweet and sensitive guy as well. Sure, he could be painfully dumb on occasions, but she could learn to stand that. After all, it was just a fling she had going on, it wasn't about to turn into anything serious and both of them knew it. It was only high school and sex.

Still, he was all she had to rely on in the Battle Royale, because she didn't trust any of her friends enough to put her life in their hands. Jessica was a manipulative bitch, Nicole was simply too naïve to live, and her friend Holly was scarcely any smarter. None of them could be trusted. If she wanted to keep herself alive in this game, she had to remain on her own. This wasn't high school, this was Battle Royale.

For some reason she had ended up at the exit to the Tunnel of Love, and looking in she could see only darkness. The lights of the amusement rides had gone out nearly two hours ago, plunging them back into darkness once again. That suited Helen just fine, because the night offered safety. Nobody could see her running around in the dark, which was how she intended to keep it. As long as she stayed out of sight, she would stay out of trouble, which in turn meant she would stay alive that much longer. In this game, she would take anything that she could get.

"Where are you, Colbes?" she muttered to herself. A part of her wanted to yell that aloud, but she wasn't stupid. Doing that would expose her position. She had to stay quiet and keep searching for Colby, and if she found him dead or worse... well, so be it. But if he tried to attack her, she wasn't unprepared either. She had a crossbow, and wasn't afraid to use it (albeit clumsily). One precisely aimed bolt in the heart would take care of anybody who tried to attack her.

But worst case scenario aside, she had hopes that she would find Colby soon enough. He hadn't responded to the messages she sent him, but she was rather sure she could convince him to let her stay around if they met face to face. Things would be okay as soon as they were together again, right? It certainly couldn't get worse, in any event.

* * *

Once he was certain that his girlfriend had gone past and was out of sight, Colby crept out of the helter skelter ride he had been hiding in. She had just come up from behind out of nowhere and had nearly taken him unawares, but he managed to hide in time to watch her amble by, wielding that clunky crossbow of hers. He made a mental note of her weapon, tucked it away somewhere in his mind, and as usual quickly lost track of it. As a jock of painfully limited brain power, he couldn't really manage to maintain any significant number of thought processes at the same time, and with the Battle Royale weighing heavy on his mind, his mind was working on borrowed time.

It wasn't that he was stupid, he was just... simple-minded. Critical thinking wasn't his strongest point, more often than not he simply took what he had been told and worked with that. It was much easier that way, and it didn't make his head ache the way it always did in front of his calculus homework. Finding out he was part of a Battle Royale was one of the worst moments of his life, but he took in as much of the instructions as he could remember and it seemed almost okay. _Just play by the rules, much easier that way, innit?_

The gun was a problem. It hadn't been easy learning to use it, and on more than one occasion he had nearly shot himself in the face while peering down the barrel, but in the end it worked out rather nicely. He could load, he could fiddle with the safety, he could even get it to shoot with some effort. The instruction manual called it a Colt Anaconda, and he was finding the Anaconda's weight on his belt more and more reassuring by the minute. _Point and click, just point and click, it's that simple, innit? Can't believe you ever thought firing a gun was hard, just point and click, my man, point and click._

Helen had gone towards the Tunnel of Love, probably went inside to find herself some alone time. That was what he hoped at least, he really didn't need the girl to latch onto him like some sort of pathetic, needy leech. He was perfectly capable on his own, having anybody else with him would probably only slow him down.

_Don't want to see her or Pheebs, do ya? Any other scenario maybe, but in a Battle Royale, somebody will end up dead if you two meet. Either she'll shoot you or you'll shoot her, that's as far as the story goes. No other options, you heard that freaky girl on the video, no other way to do this man. Come on, be a guy, be a man, you can do this, it isn't too hard innit? Just go with the flow..._

With that thought, Colby trotted the opposite way Helen came from, hoping he would not run into anybody he couldn't handle. His hopes would prove true for only some time, but as always he was quite unaware of that.

* * *

They weren't exactly the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, but it did feel a whole lot like that.

In the dark of the tunnel, he couldn't see much of anything. The weak beams of the light from their pencil torches illuminated only two faintly lit circles on the opposite wall. With the walls painted a repulsive pink (this was the Tunnel of Love, after all), they appeared almost like two alien moons that shone down on them. It highlighted their situations perfectly, because it was just about as bizarre as things could get without crossing into the realm of impossibility. Here he was, sitting with the girl he had gone to school with for years, sharing a MRE (it wasn't exactly sharing because she had her mouth gagged and he was the only one eating, but it did feel a whole lot like that) as daintily as a tea party. It was surreal, to say the least.

He knew it was a crazy thing to do too. He wasn't insane, but taking the girl any other place would have been a disservice. The Tunnel of Love might have been a tacky place to some, but to Lee Howland, a.k.a. Boy #18, could think of no other location better suited to take a girl out... in more ways than one.

She wasn't even struggling now, a conk to her skull with the wooden grip of his ice pick had taken care of that. He didn't hit her hard enough to knock her unconscious again, but it was enough to give her the idea. He wasn't afraid to use his weapon if the need arose, and more than likely he would be using it again after they had their fun, but in the mean time...

He had found her assigned weapon after taking out the girl; the roll of silver duct tape was amazingly useless as a weapon but proved itself as he bounded her arms and legs, then looped the rest around her body for good measure. Bound by wraps of duct tape, she could barely even struggle any more, and that made it all the easier for Lee to bring her over. Instead, Nadine Ellis, a.k.a. Girl #1, only glared at him with wide doe eyes, unsure what his next move would be. If he were a better judge of people he would have seen the hate in her eyes, but Lee didn't care for that one bit. They weren't exactly stars in her eyes, but it did feel a whole lot like that.

He wasn't even really sure what he wanted to do. Rape her? Maybe, but the duct tape would get in the way. At the very least he could get her to strip down to nothing. Call him a pervert, but the Battle Royale offered him the chance to commit any crime he wanted without retribution.

Grabbing her arm, he tried to pull her up to her feet. Her struggles only made the task all the more difficult, almost causing the two of them to slip in that film of algae that had been growing under the water where the swan boats didn't bump against. Angrily, he threw her aside, smashing her forehead against the wall and bloodying her nose. She fell unceremoniously into the water as she struggled to get back up, finding no grip as the duct tape bounding her body glided against the wall of the tunnel.

"Mmmph!" she tried to scream, instead coming out as a noise that barely qualified as one. "Mmmph, mph mph, MMMMPH!"

"Shut the fuck up," he said furiously as he lashed out and planted a vicious kick in the middle of her back. "You're going to die you fucking bitch, what do you think you're trying to do? I'm not fucking kidding here!"

To prove his point, he snatched up the ice pick from where it had fallen into the murky waters, and jabbed its spike into the front of her stomach. Nadine stared down in horror as blood leaked out of the wound in her stomach in beads, sliding down the duct tape into the dirty water. Her struggles weakened almost immediately, instead splaying limply against the wall as she struggled to breathe through her nose. She found little hope as the bleeding only worsened, and the sharp pang in her abdomen felt much sharper than her menstrual cramps. This was serious, she was going to die because some psycho jabbed an ice pick in her stomach. Worse of all, she couldn't even scream.

Lee took a step back as he cooled and saw what he had done in a fit of anger. He hadn't meant to kill her so early, of course not, that would only take all the fun out of it. But he had done it, there was no turning that back. If he wanted to get any sort of gratification, he'd have to find another girl. _Damn it, after all the trouble you went through hunting her down, at least she's going to be dead but damn it, she could have been fun. Not now though, now you gotta get out of here and maybe get back to business. Find another girl, somebody you won't have trouble taking down, and see if maybe she's ho-_

Nadine desperately tried to babble through the duct tape gagging her, unfortunately to no avail. More blood had seeped out of her nose, making her look like an utter mess. Her eyes appeared to have glossed over, but he was sure she wasn't dead yet. A swift kick to her side confirmed that, causing her to scream out (well, as far as somebody could scream with duct tape over their mouth) in pain.

On some level he was angry with the girl, she didn't even have the luck to be assigned anything useful. The duct tape had been mostly used up in tying her up, though even an entire roll would do little good. She didn't even get a gun, or a meat tenderizer, or anything that would serve as a better weapon than his ice pick. It wasn't that his ice pick was completely useless, but in the face of all the cannons and grenades out there, it might as well be. Unless he found some sort of stronger artillery, he would be no match for the other killers out there. Fun was good and all, but he still wanted to win the game in the end, that was the only way he could live, wasn't it?

If he wanted to win the game, he had to kill the girl. The stab to her stomach might not do the job completely, it was always best to be sure. _Sorry Nadine, looks like this is the way things go._

Ripping a length of duct tape from the roll, he slapped it over the girl's nose and pressed around it to flatten the creases. With both her nose and mouth bound tightly by duct tape, Nadine quickly realized she couldn't breathe. Writhing in her confines, she strained with all her might to break through, but her resistance had little effect, the duct tape still had her immovable and unable to breathe.

Satisfied that he had things taken care of, Lee swung his pack (freshly restocked with Nadine's supplies) over his shoulder and prepared the leave the Tunnel of Love. He was completely unaware as the girl with the superior weapon entered the tunnel.

* * *

The tunnel was as dark enough that she couldn't even see her own five fingers as she stretched a hand in front of her. Her shoes squelched with each step as she tried her best and failed miserably at not stepping into the water. On more than one occasion she had nearly slipped and fallen into the water, but fortunately had caught herself just in time. In the slick confines of the Tunnel of Love, any security the darkness offered had immediately vanished. It wasn't unthinkable that an untimely fall might break her nose or worse, paralyze her. She could end up lying broken in the water, unable to pull herself out. Anybody who passed by could take her out with no effort, with her own weapon even.

Taking care to avoid the slime that coated the sides of the trench, Helen ambled carefully through the tunnel. She was fairly certain she had caught a sight of somebody who looked like Colby, and there was nowhere else he could have gone. He had to be somewhere inside the Tunnel of Love, she would seek him out and if he appeared anything less than happy, she would shoot him. It was that simple.

"Colby?" she cried out, hearing her voice echo tenfold in the tunnels. There was no reply, but unbeknownst to the girl two people farther down the tunnel had heard her. One of them tried in vain to cry for help, while the other simply silenced her with a stab to her neck. If Helen had strained her ears, she might've heard the faintest of gargles as Nadine's world went dark.

Instead, she braved onwards with her crossbow leading the way. She hadn't counted on the fact that she wouldn't be able to see clearly even if an assailant was standing right in front of her.

"Colbes, answer me if you're in here," she said in a louder voice. She wasn't sure whether she should really raise her voice, but all the same she opted to continue the search for Colby. Finding her boyfriend was the priority; if anybody heard her roaming around and attempted to kill her, she figured a crossbow bolt between the eyes should take care of that fairly marvelously. She could be vigilant, she could be ruthless, and if the need arose she could even be a murderer. The nature of a Battle Royale allowed little room for mistakes. If anybody stood in the way, she would simply shoot them until they were dead. It wouldn't be a difficult strategy, and with some luck it might even allow her to coast all the way to the end of the game. _Just stay on the safe side as much as you can, hurry up and find Colby and don't take any more risks than you absolutely have to. Stay out of trouble and everything's gonna work out just fine and dandy._

"Colby? Is that you?" she asked, frightened, as a faint splash echoed from ahead, almost as if somebody had stepped into the water.

"If it's really you Colbes, please say something, I've been-" she said, summarily cut off as the boy who had been pressing himself close to the wall leapt at her and wrestled her down. She let out a small scream, swinging her crossbow wildly in an attempt to bludgeon her attacker.

Her attack met its mark as the crossbow collided heavily with Lee's skull, sending the boy staggering back in blinding pain. Gasping with tears in her eyes, she quickly snatched up one of the crossbow bolts that had fallen out of her pack and loaded her crossbow clumsily. The boy stumbled up against the opposite wall of the tunnel, and acting quickly Helen leveled off a shot at him, reloaded, and fired off another in succession.

The first bolt missed by a clear mile, while the second whizzed through his hair. Lee jerked to the side as no more arrows came flying his way, affording him the opportunity to get the hell out of there. Helen was still clumsily reloading her crossbow after her second shot, and with Nadine slumped lifelessly in the water trench, there was nobody to keep him around. He certainly couldn't take down that psychotic cheerleading bitch with his ice pick, not now that he's lost the element of surprise. Opting to run away was the best option out of everything he had, and quite possibly the only one that would allow him to get out of the tunnel alive.

By the time Helen had gotten the crossbow in working order again, Lee was long gone. It wasn't impossible to catch up to him, but she opted to leave the tunnel instead. There was nothing to gain by slaying the boy, he didn't have any considerable weapon and Colby was clearly not in the tunnel. Nadine was quite obviously dead, slumped to the side against the wall with her hair hanging around her cheeks in wet brown clusters. _Clearly beyond help, that's too bad but there's nothing you could have done though._

Massaging the shoulder that had banged up against the wall when Lee jumped her, Helen ambled out of the Tunnel of Love. She had never looked back even once, which unfortunately was why she had never seen the blinking light on the side of Nadine's neck that coincided with her slowing heart rate.

* * *

By a series of events that she would have deemed a freaky coincidence, Nadine was spared of an unfortunate death. She would have suffocated with the duct tape plastered over her nose and mouth, but as she tried to let out as much noise as she could to plead help from the newcomer, Lee let the rage get the better of him and rammed the ice pick into the front of her throat in an attempt to silence her. Had his aim shifted for even the slightest bit, she would have bled to death from the jugulars. Instead, the spike had painfully cleared a hole through her esophagus and trachea, enabling her to somewhat breathe. Effectively, he had given her a primitive tracheotomy without benefit of anesthesia.

The pain of it was something she could withstand. It was definitely preferable to being killed right away.

She thought about crying for help, but quickly realized nobody would hear her even if the duct tape over mouth didn't muffle anything she tried to say. Nobody was around to help her, after all, there was no knight in shining armor. This wasn't like in the fairytales, nice girls don't get happy endings. Instead, they get to await a painful death that was completely out of her hands. Lying partly in the water with wounds dotting her throat, abdomen, and the side of her head, Nadine knew she would die. It was simply impossible that anybody would come around to rescue her. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner she could come to terms with her impending death.

Feeling another pulse of blood seep out of her wounds, Nadine let her eyes drift peacefully upward. At least death by blood loss was a relatively painless way to go...

* * *

The girls on the swim team were not particularly committed to compulsory after school practice on Thursdays, but for some reason they were nearly unanimously present at the swimming pool. Coach Velma Barbeau hadn't arrived yet, and the girls didn't feel it would be appropriate to begin conducting practice without the coach's supervision. Instead, they sat in a line along the side of the pool, enjoying the sensation of pool water lapping against their bare legs as they exchanged idle chitchat. While outsider Gail Arquette sat off to the side texting on her phone and the unlikely couple of Brittany Ryan and Leila Mendell remained at the end of the line whispering sweet nothings to each other, the rest of the girl quickly struck up a conversation about the latest gossip.

"So you guys will never guess who just did it for the first time with her boyfriend," said Melissa Feltz, a junior whose glossy brown hair framed her face nicely, "but I heard from Kendra Doring who heard from Chloe Redfield who heard from the janitor that Nadine finally got her boy Andrew to commit, in the cafeteria toilets no less."

"What? No freaking way," replied Bonnie Nichols, a plain-looking girl with a smile that was mostly gums, "I know Nadine, there's no way she'll even strip down in the toilets, I mean that's where people do number two!"

"Believe what you will," Melissa said happily, "but I happen to know Baxter found a condom wrapper inside right after the two of them came out. That's what some people call circumstantial evidence."

""I can't believe it," Bonnie said skeptically.

"I can," Nina Delancey said simply. "I've never seen her this happy since the day Mariel Valverde split her lip when she fell from the pyramid. Something extraordinary must have happened, and finally getting laid fits in perfectly with that."

"I still can't believe it!" Bonnie exclaimed a bit more emphatically.

"You girls done with your chitchat or should I push back practice to accommodate it?" Coach Velma Barbeau practically demanded as she tramped out of her office. She was a well-built woman in her forties who looked like she could be warrior queen of a small Amazonian nation. The story on the rumor circuit was that she had killed her first husband in order to hide her lesbian affair (the more outrageous versions portraying her as a scheming lover who crushed her husband's skull with her thighs). Looking at her toned form in any given swim team meeting, the girls had no trouble believing it.

The girls knew better than to reply; instead they hurried into formation (even Gail, who had left her phone wrapped in a towel on one of the chairs that surrounded the pool) and waited for swim team practice to start. Regional Swim Meet was in a couple of weeks at most, and they needed all the practice they could get if they even wanted the slightest chance of taking home anything other than disappointment. As much as they disliked the prospect of sacrificing their free time in favor of Coach Barbeau's brutal training, they took the competition seriously enough that skipping practice was unthinkable. Nobody knew why Nadine hadn't been there, but that wasn't going to stop them from pushing (or being pushed) to their limits as usual.

One by one, the girls performed their warm up stretches.

* * *

At that very moment, Nadine was on the verge of tears as she waited for the result of the pregnancy stick. She had purchased it on the way home, deciding to miss swim team practice for the first time since she had joined the team because she had graver issues on her mind. She had peed on the stick the best she could, getting urine all over her fingers in the mean time. She had waited the amount of time it indicated on the package, and now she was going to finally see the results of it.

"I'm sorry, I thought it worked, I didn't know you're not supposed to," Andrew said in panic from the speaker of her cell phone, "I mean, I didn't know those things had a use by date, I just used the one in my wallet and I thought that was okay, I just had no idea-"

"Andrew, can you shut up please?" Nadine said as the tears finally began to fall. She had made a mistake, possibly one that would continue to affect her entire life. If the test stick showed the result to be positive, if there was indeed a developing fetus snowballing cell by cell inside her body, if she had to spend her next eighteen years taking care of a product of her first fling with her high school boyfriend... she didn't even dare to think about the consequences. Her father would be furious, probably kick her out and cut off all ties with his youngest daughter. Her mother would offer no support as well, preferring to stand by her husband's decisions in every scenario. The only person in her family who might be remotely sympathetic was her big brother Charlie, but he was away on tour.

"I could really use some peace of mind right now," Nadine finally said.

Andrew was stunned for a moment before saying in a defeated tone, "All right, I'll just be here... waiting."

Nadine could hear the faint noise of Andrew swearing and slamming a fist against some surface on the other end of the phone, but it didn't matter to her then. The pregnancy test stick should be ready by now. She couldn't afford to wait any longer, her mother might be coming home soon. Wiping the stick clean of any residue urine without looking directly at it, she held it in front of her with her eyes closed. _All right, this is it. One line means everything's all fine, two lines and you're screwed. Oh god, please, don't let this go wrong, I can't afford to do this, I've got my entire life ahead of me, so does Andrew, oh god..._

Forcing her eyes open a slit, she found the stick test as only a blur. Not wanting to but not having a choice, she opened her eyes slowly.

Her thumb was covering up the result.

She moved it aside, and saw only one line in the little square. It felt like her heart had been jolted by a bolt of electricity, and she felt suddenly faint enough that she had to go over and sit on the toilet seat. Her hair hung in front of her face in tattered curls, and looking in the mirror Nadine could see for the first time how horrible she looked. Eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying, her nose rubbed a bloodless white, she didn't think she could look that bad.

The afternoon sunlight that shone in through the blinds of the bathroom window looked positively uplifting.

"Andrew?" she whispered as the boy on the other end of the phone tensed. "It's a negative. We lucked out, holy crap, we lucked out big time."

* * *

That afternoon in her bedroom had been the first and only time they had ever had sex; afterwards they were both too freaked out to continue the relations. Though they still remained a loving couple, their relationship had never once strayed from strictly spiritual one since. Neither ever mentioned the incident, thinking that they would be able to continue making it work if they ignored the elephant that had once been in the room. Nobody would ever know whether that could ever work out as nicely as they wanted it to be, given that both would be abducted and made to take part in the Battle Royale not long after that.

While Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, would continue his futile search for his girlfriend, Nadine drifted between unconsciousness and the real world as she lay dying in the trench of the Tunnel of Love. If somebody had come by and administered first aid, they might have been able to prolong her life in the game for some time, but Nadine had no such luck.

Memories drifted in and out of her mind. Some were from her childhood, others so recent that they were memories of fear and terror of the game's earlier moments. At the age of six, she had nearly broken her arm when she fell off that tree in their lawn, but Charlie broke her fall and prevented any serious injury from happening to her. Not without cost, he had sprained his ankle and ended up missing the biggest game of that year because of that.

Every Christmas, their aunt Lillian visited and always brought along presents for her and Charlie. They still dreaded her visits though; she was such a drunk that her kisses consisted of more alcohol than spit and practically sterilized.

She thought she might have seen Bonnie Nichols, a.k.a. Girl #6, while trudging through the fairgrounds, but she didn't dare to approach her friend.

Her favorite class in school had always been math.

Andrew had kissed her on the third date, at this pancake restaurant they both loved. He had ordered a chocolate chip pancake with whipped cream, while she had coffee and cheese pancakes. She was having a taste of Andrew's pancakes and gotten whipped cream on her chin, and he had gone ahead and kissed her on the lips.

As her world became one of the past, Nadine's body slipped in the water's faint currents, and her head lolled under the surface. Murky water surged into the wound in her throat, clogging her airway and causing her to cough rather violent. With duct tape over her mouth and nose, none of the water she tried to cough out could escape. With every passing moment, the world drifted away into an increasingly surreal quality. Her mind swam with oxygen deprivation, distorting subliminal thoughts and memories as her lungs gradually filled with water.

She would not come to for even the slightest bit until she finally expired, and even then nobody would come across her body until the game was over. Through the veil of darkness, all she could see were surging bubbles.

For Nadine, the end was, at least, merciful.


	10. Hour 5: 47 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 5**

**47 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

George Caiger, a.k.a. Boy #10, had come into the Battle Royale with the intent to survive the game. He supposed that would mean he would have to participate in the game, even if that translated into murdering several people who had done no wrong other than happen to be caught in the game. It was Battle Royale, it was survival of the fittest, and unless he managed to do what he had to, he would end up a nameless victim to be carried out in a body bag. And that wasn't how George wanted to go, no, because he was destined to be something greater than Boy #10 of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale. He had his entire future ahead of him, and nobody could take that from him.

Despite the odds against him, George was still confident he could end up walking away from this game alive. There were very few people in this game who could stand their ground in a fight against him, and in all likelihood none who could withstand a fierce crack on the head if he put all his muscle into it. It wouldn't be difficult to take somebody by surprise, brain them in one strike, and walk away with their weapon. Do this enough times and he would be on a much higher footing than he was right now. _Of course it's simple when you put it that way, there are gonna be other people out to kill you too. Not to mention they'll all have guns and shit, you think that baton's really gonna stand you much of a chance out here? That's just naïve._

He cracked his knuckles as he looked around. It was already five hours into the game, time was running faster than he could realize. The first announcement was going to come up soon enough, and he still hadn't found his first victim yet. He was beginning to think that perhaps he shouldn't have explored the outer zones of the island so soon; after all, most players should still be in the amusement park. He should have remained there and waited for the others to run past one by one. Instead, he was now wandering the woods searching for somebody, anybody else he could come across.

"Damn it, somebody's gotta be around here," he grunted to himself. _Talking to yourself, that's the first sign of insanity isn't it?_

He couldn't help but smile a bit at that. Going insane would be an all too easy condition to suffer from in a Battle Royale. He was certain more than a few girls (and maybe some of the guys as well) had already gone bonkers if they weren't already a bit crazy, if only from the fear of the game. _But you're different, you're not afraid of this, are you?_

_Of course not_, he thought idly as he flipped the police baton in his hands. _You've got this down, you know how it's supposed to go and what you're supposed to do, nothing can go wrong, right?_

The problem was that nobody would voluntarily roam the woods, not when they had so many buildings and other structures to hide in. If he wanted half a chance at making any sort of progress in this game, he had to go where the weaker contestants would go. Places that offered plenty of hiding places. False safety. Food and water. Luxuries.

He saw little point in heading back to the amusement park right now. It would take several hours before he could reach there, all it would accomplish was waste valuable travel time. But the Asbury Bay Hotel was nearby, and it seemed like a good enough place to start. By all rights there should be at least one or two people there. Besides, the top floors of the hotel would make it easy to scout out the rest of the island and see if he could catch a glimpse of anybody else. It was a decent start, at least.

Swinging his pack over his shoulder, George got ready to pay the hotel's occupants an unexpected visit.

* * *

To most of the Battle Royale's contestants, survival was the absolute priority. While a majority of them decided to seek out the nearest hideout and remain alive as long as they could, others opted to participate in the game by its rules in dim hope that they could end up winning the Battle Royale. And then there were those who reacted differently, those who had agendas of their own. They had more important things on their mind, and motivated differently than others, they were the ones who made the game interesting to the viewers. There were those who acted without regard for personal safety, there were those who had lost their minds, there were those who simply had a different outlook, and then there were those who only wanted to get intoxicated and die soaking in alcohol.

Brooke Hilton, a.k.a. Girl #22, fell into the latter sort of people. She knew in no uncertain terms that her time in the game would not be long, and as any other fun loving girl out there, she had decided the best way to spend her last hours was to drown herself in alcohol. And while she would quite enjoy the literal version of that, she could only settle herself with the mini-bar at Room 91 at the Asbury Bay Hotel.

In reality though, it wasn't all that bad. The refrigerator held a rather commendable supply of liquors and spirits, as well as several bottles of carbonated water and sodas. In addition to that, she found a selection of assorted nuts, chocolate bars, dried fruit, gum drops, and practically every brand of cigarettes she had ever heard of. She didn't expect any room service for the duration of her stay, but Brooke had a good feeling she was going to have a nice time here – however short it would turn out to be, and with her assigned weapon, she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Sipping a vodka martini as she worked, Brooke slammed a fresh magazine into her Ruger Mini-14 semi-automatic rifle in a swift maneuver. Double checking to make sure it was indeed firmly reloaded, she swung the Mini-14 around and set it upon the windowsill. Their room overlooked the front of the hotel; if anybody tried to approach she could easily scare them off with a narrow shot.

"You're kind of skilled at handling that gun," said Alyssa Easton in awe, a.k.a. Girl #24, who was for the lack of a better title, her current roommate.

Alyssa wasn't somebody she usually hung out with, because the female population of her social circles consisted solely of Gail Arquette. On the other hand, Alyssa was not her kind of people. Having always been known as somewhat of a nerd to most people, Alyssa had never been a popular person until she joined the student union as secretary. Ever since, she had been practically inseparable with the rest of her gang. In the Battle Royale, pairing up with the girl was something she had never thought she would do, but while her Mini-14 ensured safety from afar, Alyssa's Luger P08 pistol was definitely something that was nice to have around. As well, she could use having another girl around to ease the loneliness. Alyssa was somebody to talk to, somebody who would watch her back, and at worst she would make a decent meat shield.

"Yeah, this isn't the first time I've used a rifle," Brooke replied as she stirs more dry vermouth into the stem glass she was holding.

"Oh, really?" Alyssa asked idly. She didn't sound like she was looking for any more, but purely for the sake of conversation (the silence of the room did get rather intimidating, given that they couldn't turn on the television and all her gadgets were missing), Brooke decided to humor her.

"Yeah, my dad made me learn how when we went hunting," she said as she sipped the vodka martini, "wanna hear about it?"

"Sure, nothing better on TV anyway," Alyssa said as she glanced at the shiny black screen. They had unplugged it just in case one of them sat on the remote and turned it on full volume while somebody was within earshot. It didn't mean much, but they were grasping at every bit of control they had in the situation.

Downing the stem glass's contents and wanting more, Brooke took a quick swig from the flask of dry vermouth and quickly explained, "My dad's been taking me out on hunting trips ever since I was old enough to hold a rifle without dropping it on my toes. I think it's got something to do with the fact that he's always wanted a son but my mother refuses to have more than one kid, and he's trying to make me fit his mold the best I can. Never seen him more disappointed than when I told him I wasn't a lesbian."

Alyssa snorted at that, and Brooke smiled a bit. "Anyway, he'd take me out to some hunting range, you know, the kind with game? And we'd spend the whole day hunting down deer and pheasants and... you know, other kinds of woodland creatures that are large enough to shoot at. Some I never even know what kind of animal they are. It took me a while to get used to the idea of killing animals with a gun. As a kid, I'd just tell myself it's okay to shoot them because they're hurt or that they're hurting other animals or the forest, and that it's a good thing to shoot them, you know? But once I got used to it, it was actually kind of fun, and sometimes we'd bring home some of the game and my mom would wrinkle her nose and say she's not cooking that thing and my dad gets his mistress to cook it anyway."

She took a swig from the flask before she continued, "It's actually kind of neat, firing a hunting rifle. It makes this helluva noise and jolts back, so you gotta hold tight onto it, and a moment later you see the deer fall. There's blood and everything of course, but seeing as it's a living creature you can't avoid that. Most of the time I go for the spot behind the shoulders, hits right where their vital organs are so they die quick. Some people I know aim for the neck, which can end up missing the spine and the poor thing just suffers a lot before it finally dies."

Sniffing, Brooke emptied the flask and looked around. Alyssa was sitting on one of the beds with a strange look on her face, and her eyes were even stranger.

"I never knew that," Alyssa finally said, "I never hunt or do anything interesting, maybe it's just the way you tell it but I never knew that about hunting, or that you're actually a pretty neat person."

Brooke wasn't sure what to respond, and instead asked the other girl, "So you want a drink? It's on me."

Alyssa looked apprehensive for all of two seconds before she tossed her hands in the air and said, "What the heck, I'll give it a try. I guess I'll have whatever you're having."

Brooke chuckled as she fished out a flask from the endless supply of her pack (they had gone through nearly all the rooms on the floor looking for the room with the best view of the front of the hotel, and Brooke had looted all the mini-bars they came across) and started mixing another vodka martini. Half ounce dry vermouth and two ounces vodka, stirred with a silver teaspoon she found next to the coffee cups. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.

Holding the stem glass daintily with her pinky finger sticking out, she handed the glass to the other girl. "Cirrhosis of the liver, coming right up. Try not to kill yourself with it."

* * *

He stopped at a picnic area a little farther up the road. He wasn't very hungry, but after trotting without rest for over an hour, he thought he deserved a chance to rest his feet. The picnic area was decorated to the nines, with wooden bench-and-table sets, red-and-white checkered quilts, and a border of firs and deciduous trees painted the color of autumn. A cluster of stone barbecue pits huddled a slight way off, halfway hidden by faux woodland. Deciding it would be a safer place to rest at than the conspicuous picnic tables, Lee Howland, a.k.a. Boy #18, ambled over and rested his goddamned aching behind on the stone edge.

The sky was beginning to light up, halfway between a light shade of lavender and a darker cerulean with faint sunlight shining through the clouds. It would have been beautiful if he was in any mood to admire the everyday wonders of nature, but for Lee, the day couldn't have started off any darker.

He had followed around Nadine Ellis, a.k.a. Girl #1, for hours before finally managing to catch the girl unawares. Once she was unconscious (and missing an ear, though he tried not to linger on that), she turned out to be much easier to deal with, if not carry. That roll of duct tape that she had been assigned had helped too, but in the end it was all futile because a psychotic cheerleading bitch jumped them and started firing goddamned _arrows_ at him. Lee had seen the glint in her eyes, and while he couldn't accurately identify whether she was intent on murder or simply insane (_probably both_), he knew it was hardly a good idea to stick around. And so he had grabbed his pack and his ice pick and hauled goddamned ass until he could hardly even feel his legs over the sensation of blinding fire.

A lackadaisical breeze swept by his cheek, almost like the touch of a gentle caress. In the light of the rising morning sun, he could see that the situation seemed almost serene. Poetic, even. The idea of a lone guy sitting where families might have once had fun toasting marshmallows and hot dogs, it seemed like it could have been straight out of a novel.

He was beginning to hear the faint sound of children not laughing when he could see somebody in the distance. It looked like a girl, and possibly a pretty one. He lost Nadine, but there was no shortage of pretty females in the game. The powers that be had made sure of that, including as many attractive contestants as possible in the game purely for television purposes. Nobody wanted to see a square-faced, pug-nosed girl with a cleft palate get killed after all.

_Stop this, this is stupid. You're in a Battle Royale, this is no time to let your libido take control of you. Once was enough, you'll get yourself killed if you don't take control._

"Just one last time," Lee muttered as he dispelled the thought. Pulling out his ice pick – then dropping it and picking up one of the barbecue forks by the stone pits instead – he prepared to charge into the girl with full force. He was by no means a particularly strong guy, but she was a girl for god's sake, it wouldn't be hard taking her down, would it?

Once he had crept as close to the girl as he could without giving himself away, Lee bounded out of the bushes with a hoarse scream, the barbecue fork raised overhead as if to stake the girl down. Marla Thompson, a.k.a. Girl #18, didn't even think as she brought up the Walther P99 pistol and emptied its clip. With half a dozen bullets blasting out of its muzzle, Marla was sent sprawling into the wall on the other side by the recoil of the gun. The explosion was deafening, the stink of expended gunpowder rich and strong in their noses.

Lee didn't even bother to flinch; the shots had all missed him by some miracle. With the barbecue fork in his hands, he slammed it against Marla's throat, pinning her to the wall. The girl writhed in pain as she tried to escape, but with the iron shaft holding her in place, she could barely even breathe. She tried weakly to push him away to no avail, but to his surprise she was strong enough to make his ribs hurt. Still, he was stronger, and kept her pinned as the air slowly hissed out from her lips. _Shit, don't kill her just yet, you gotta have a little fun, don't you? Ah well, too late for that I guess._

Intending to ebb every inch of life out of Marla, Lee instead collapsed to the ground as a hard blow to the back of his head turned out the lights. Pain suddenly exploded all over his chest as he collided with the ground, splattering blood all over himself. _Blood, why the hell is there blood on the ground? What the hell is going on...?_

"Jesus Christ!" Marla choked out as she jumped away, not even minding the pain in her throat as she frantically reloaded and blasted the back of Lee's head open, instantly killing him in a slew of brain matter. She had no way of knowing that the boy would have bled out in a matter of seconds even without that final bullet, or that it would be in her best interests to conserve her ammunition. Nevertheless, it was only the sight of Nicholas Dillon, a.k.a. Boy #5, standing over the other boy that rendered her rooted to the spot. She couldn't even find the strength to pull the trigger again, and was fairly sure she would have remained in that position even as Nicholas prepared to kill her with...

...a dented metal cylinder, which on closer inspection turned out to be a tennis ball container. The three yellow-green balls had fallen out from the other end as Nicholas swung it into the back of Lee's head and afforded her the chance to escape.

Marla was starting to feel faint-headed when she noticed the blood speckled all over her shoes. It wasn't anything unexpected, if anything with the two recent deaths (she was fairly sure Clara was dead by now) it was no surprise that her shoes were dotted with dull brown and dark red. Some of it had dried over (_must've been Clara's_), some still sticky. She stifled a scream and looked up, wishing this whole thing would turn out to be a dream and she could wash her shoes under the tap until they were shining.

"Are you all right?" Nicholas asked, visibly shaken.

Quite possibly the only jock on campus that didn't scare her, Nicholas was a childhood friend from whom she had drifted apart since high school. He was one of the best soccer players on the school team while Marla had never been much of an athlete. He had trouble understanding the significance of art while Marla was a highly invested artist. They travelled within vastly different social circles, and there were many who would have gladly given her hell for her connection with him. All in all, both Marla and Nicholas had learned it was best in their mutual interests to remain apart in their own cliques, at least for the duration of high school. Sure, they hung out occasionally and for a couple weeks Marla had tutored him in trigonometry, but there was definitely a closeness that was now missing.

Seeing her longtime friend made Marla whimper. Weakly, she raised her pistol, but she knew she couldn't find the heart to fire no matter what. Nor could she manage any kind of speech, so in the end she settled for heaving sobs against his shoulder as he held her close.

"It'll be all right, won't it?" Marla said through tears and hiccups.

Nicholas didn't even dare to promise anything. Instead, he just held her closer.

"Please tell me it'll be all right," Marla sobbed, "tell me we'll get to go home, please, just tell me."

"I can't say everything will turn out to be all right," Nicholas said awkwardly as he tried to comfort the girl, "but we'll manage."

"We will?" Marla asked tearfully.

Nicholas looked at her long and hard before replying, "Yeah, I think we will."

* * *

At roughly a quarter to six, Hank Norton, a.k.a. Boy #17, arrived at the island's only medical center. It was little more than a two-storey building with only the most elementary medical equipment as well as a sparing amount of drugs and medication and bandages and other assorted shit that would undoubtedly be useful in the right hands. It was nothing compared to the Malton Memorial Hospital back home, but at the very least it was better equipped than the first-aid stations he came across. Those had been an absolute disgrace, scarcely anything more than tents with unsanitized bandages and over the counter painkillers. It looked like something out of a third world country, though for all he knew the island might as well have been one. _No contact, no provisions, no way this is America, but this isn't the old times we're talking about._

This was something that needed to be done though. There was no question that it was a selfish act, something that would only benefit himself (and perhaps anybody else he came across), but in a Battle Royale he couldn't afford to be too philanthropic.

It was an unbelievably dangerous thing to do, giving fifty hormonal teenagers all sorts of weapons, but in the end he guessed that was what they were trying to achieve. After all, for whatever purposes they wanted them to kill each other until only one person remained, and for all the injuries they would have received in the mean time, it might as well be nobody. Hank was an admitted gainsayer of many of the government's policies and implementations, and for all he could make sense of, the game served no practical purpose. Sure, there was that rhetorical bullshit they spouted about implanting fear or whatnot, but in the end it didn't work. Even fucking Pollyanna could see that. All the game achieved was a whole load of ratings and income for the powers that be.

He had to work fast. It was still early on and most people would be too distracted by the situation to do much killing (or so he hoped), and if he worked fast enough, he could be out of here before anybody else showed up with a hole in their gut or a missing arm. From the shelves and drawers he pulled out bottles of rubbing alcohol and bandages and tourniquets and penicillin and painkillers. Anything that could sustain a life for however long, he would take with him. More likely than not, it would come in handy at some point during the game.

Hank hummed as he worked, never knowing as the girl crept up behind him. If his mind hadn't been set on a song about this one girl who was so fine she blew his mind, he probably would have heard her footsteps and reacted instantly, pulling out his Beretta and shooting her between the eyes.

Fortunately for Alexis Brightwell, a.k.a. Girl #5, he didn't notice a thing as she approached him with her pistol held high.

In fact, it wasn't until she had the barrel of the gun pressed against the base of his neck that he froze in place. There was something unmistakably about the metal circlet against his skin, pressed so firmly that it would leave an imprint of the muzzle if she pulled her pistol away.

"Don't shoot, I'll do whatever you want," Hank said nervously. _Damn it, gun's still in your holster, should've kept it in hand, but at least y__ou're still alive. You're still alive and that's good, because if they came with the intent to kill you would have a wind tunnel in your head right now. There's room for compromise, there's a chance you might get out of this alive, hey Mickey._

"Give me your gun," Alexis said as she tried her best not to let her voice waver. "Remove it from your holster and set it on the floor, don't try anything or that pea-brain of yours will be meeting the wall in front of you."

He complied, cursing under his breath as he slowly pulled the Beretta out of its holster and set it on the tiled floor, then pushed it slightly backwards with his foot. _Shouldn't have let go of your weapon so easily, but what else was there to do under the situation?_

She didn't think to check if he had any other weapon, which would have been a mistake if he had killed another contestant and taken their weapon.

Picking up his gun with her free hand, she pocketed it and eased up with her own pistol. Though she still kept it aimed squarely at the back of his head, Hank let out a breath he had been holding since what seemed like forever. At least she didn't mean to kill him, that much was an unexpected relief. It didn't mean she wouldn't though, there was every possibility that she could end up panicking and shooting him dead. Like always, it was best to remain cautious.

"Can I turn around?" Hank asked slowly.

Alexis hesitated for a moment, then replied, "Yeah, I guess you can. No sudden movements, okay?"

He did so, keeping his hands on either side of his head the entire time. "Care to point that gun away from me? It's not like I have another weapon."

Alexis tensed up at the last bit, but she still stashed her gun back into her shoulder holster. Without the threat of a bullet through his neck, Hank could breathe much easier, and for the first time in the game even mustered something that might have been a smile. Alexis didn't return it, and in their current situation he couldn't really blame her. Instead, he unbuckled the holster on his belt and handed it over to Alexis. She stared at him with eyes that bugged out slightly, in a way that would have been comical if the situation wasn't anything but.

"What are you..." she tried to ask, startled, her hand already on the butt of the pistol in her shoulder holster.

"Relax," Hank said, "I just figured since you're taking my gun, you might as well have the holster. You're liable to blow a body part off if you keep toting that gun around like that, at least the holster will make it easier for you to carry the gun around."

Alexis went silent for a moment, as though debating with herself on something. She finally said, "I was never gonna take your gun. I would've given it back to you just before I left, I just had to make sure you wouldn't shoot me the moment I have my back turned."

"I won't," Hank promised solemnly, "I'm only looking out for myself, I swear, I don't have any intentions whatsoever to play the game."

"Can I..." Alexis started to say, swallowed, then continued, "Can I really trust you? For all I know this could be a ruse, you could be waiting for me to give back your gun so you can blow my brains out. Forgive me if I don't sound trusting but it's hardly in my best interests to blindly hand over a loaded gun. No offense, but I'm not that gullible."

"This isn't like that," Hank protested emphatically, "they want you to think that there's no point in trusting your friends, but it's not like that at all!"

"They?" Alexis asked simply.

"The people behind this fucked up game," Hank said. "I think you can probably tell, but I don't have any intention to kill you. If you'll give me back my gun – or not, if you're still paranoid – we can both be back on our ways, that is unless you would agree to my other proposition."

"And that is?" Alexis asked, but the distrust in her voice was dissipating. Instead, Hank could hear a certain note of fear.

"We team up. Not to kill, but just to watch each other's backs and keep ourselves safe. We'll avoid other people, maybe take them in if we both think they're trustworthy. Otherwise, we just stay alive for as long as we can, hopefully until the end of this game."

"And then what?" Alexis said bitterly. "Turn on each other? See who can shoot the other one in the back first?"

"We just wait," Hank said, "until the time limit is up. We hide from the other players until these dog collars blow our head off, or we each take a bullet in the head, but at least then we'd give those sick fucks running or watching this game something that'll royally piss them off. And this way, we're pretty much spared a potentially painful death."

Alexis maintained a façade of silence as she contemplated the words. Dying wasn't an option she wanted to choose, but in the end she knew she had little choice. Odds were greater than ever that she could end up being slaughtered by one of her acquaintances, maybe even Marla or Clara (she was fairly certain she had seen her run by earlier, but that gunshot she had instinctively fired off had probably scared her off for good) if things came down to the worst. All the same, she didn't have much of a say in the matter and would have gladly accepted a quick, practically instantaneous death. Considering the alternative... there were better ways to go than in

"I guess," she finally said, somewhat dubious.

Hank said nothing, and after a moment of mutual silence, she added, "I mean, I wouldn't want to die but I guess there's no better option. I... don't want to play the game."

"Yeah," Hank said softly, "me neither."

"Not unless I have to," Alexis said firmly.

Looking to the girl, Hank suppressed a shudder. Never would he have taken Alexis Brightwell as a capable fighter, but at that moment in time, he could almost be convinced of anything. The blonde girl was tinier than anybody of the same age, barely reaching up to his shoulder even with her blonde hair gelled and spiked up, but with a Smith & Wesson Military & Police .38 pistol in her shoulder holster and his Beretta M92F pistol buckled at her waist, she looked ready for warfare. _And who's to say Battle Royale isn't a war of its own?_

Unarmed and empty-handed, Hank picked up his pack and swung it over his shoulder. _And who's to say you can't take care of yourself? Sure, you don't even have a gun right now, and it might be a day or even two before she trusts you with a weapon, but you'll manage just fine. Not just you, not on your own, Alexis will too. You'll manage just fine, hey Mickey, who's to say you won't manage just fine?_

The thought weighed on his mind even as the two left the ransacked medical center.


	11. Hour 6: 46 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 6**

**46 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

At precisely six o'clock in the morning, the loudspeakers on the battlefield of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale emitted what was known as a mosquito noise. Simply put, it was a sound of so high a pitch that adults were incapable of hearing it. All forty-six teenagers who were still alive on the island certainly did, each with varying degree of response. Some had known to expect it, others were jolted out of uneasy sleep, while there were those who found themselves in splitting pain as the mosquito noise pierced into their ears. All the same, it had the intended effect; every one of the game's contestants were in prime awareness to receive the first report of the Battle Royale.

"Good morning little monsters!" Julie Winnfield shouted happily into the microphone before her. "This is your Season Eight winner Julie Winnfield, here with your regular announcement! It is now six in the morning, so let's cut to the chase. You guys are doing a decent job so far, but you'll have to speed things up or you won't meet the time limit. In any event, here's a list of the eliminated contestants, in the order which they died in."

She cleared her throat, then began reading from the papers. "First to go was Boy #4, Leon Delgado, death by a combination of gunshot and strangulation, and you can thank Daphne Reagan and Mallick Sullivan for ridding the playing field of that piece of scum. After that, we have Girl #11, Clara Bellucci, shot in the shoulder by Drake Farrell and then dunked into a deep fryer, damn, that's a nasty way to go. Girl #1, Nadine Ellis, was stabbed and subsequently drowned by Boy #18, Lee Howland, who incidentally was then shot to Swiss cheese by Marla Thompson. That makes four deaths altogether, and I know you kids are new to this so that must seem like a massacre, but let me tell you that's nowhere near respectable. You kids better up your game, if you don't want your heads blasted off by that neck bomb you're wearing."

Julie paused as she leafed through another set of papers, then said, "In other news, the nice people behind the game would like to let you guys know just because your friends are dead, doesn't mean you have to stop fighting for your own survival! Just remember, these are all your _enemies_ out there. Keep up the good fight, people. Don't disappoint me."

All around the island, the forty-six teenagers hearing the report reacted differently. Some started up new rounds of hysterics, others merely noted down all the information they could garner from Julie Winnfield's brief lines. Several relished in the deaths of their classmates, perhaps knowing they had a direct hand in causing their demise. More than a few lamented the deaths of their friends, at the same time wondering how others could be spurred to commit acts of such depravity.

Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, was slightly disconcerted by the fact that she had run into both Lee and Nadine before they had died, the latter twice though she could not recognize her on the second encounter. Knowing it could just as easily been herself who was killed, she proceeded her search for her boyfriend with considerably more care.

Kurt Vogel, a.k.a. Boy #3, didn't think Mr. Hot Shot could be killed so early (or so easily), but the report wouldn't lie. Leon was dead, and that left him alone.

Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, spent the better part of the next hour cycling through thoughts of anger and denial. He couldn't accept that Nadine was indeed dead, and would keep telling himself that he had heard the announcements wrong for hours before he could be persuaded otherwise.

Regina Crosby, a.k.a. Girl #7, jotted down all the names she could remember, envious and already plotting.

Adrian Perry, a.k.a. Boy #9, couldn't help but whimper as he mentally went over the list. The prospect of four people dying – being killed – in such a short time terrified him, but that was nowhere near the level of fear he felt towards the idea that he could be next.

Mal Sullivan, a.k.a. Boy #11, might have smiled a bit at the report, but for all intents and purposes he kept up the façade of detachment. He had taken pleasure in the kill, that he would not and could not deny. But there were more noble goals he had to serve.

Nicole Reiniger, a.k.a. Girl #14, and Holly Richmond, a.k.a. Girl #15, were beginning to feel they could survive on their own when the announcement ripped away any pretense of security they had. They were still caught in a deathmatch game, and with neither girl being the greatest of navigators, they were still lost in the woods.

Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #16, ran a hand through her dark hair, feeling increasingly frustrated as the death count started to build up. There had to be a way she could stop this from happening.

Marla Thompson, a.k.a. Girl #18, was still in tears. If anything, the report only renewed that.

Rodney O'Neal, a.k.a. Boy #19, grimly jotted down all the names he could remember, his mind already working in overtime.

Caleb Kennedy, a.k.a. Boy #25, didn't believe his girlfriend could be anywhere near capable of actually shooting somebody, much less Leon Delgado (who he honestly thought would be one of his greatest competitors). He had tried to track her down, but every step of the way she had eluded him. Perhaps it was time to start taking things more seriously.

* * *

Sophie Davies, a.k.a. Girl #12, huddled in the corner of the room she was in. Her eyes darted from corner to corner, watching each reflection of the redheaded girl do the same. Scrunched up at the very back of the mirrored room, she took in the morning announcements with some degree of immediate fear. It had seemed like a good idea to hide at first, and so she had sought out shelter in the form of one of the many attractions in the place. The House of Mirrors didn't seem like a place any sane person would choose to spend their last hours in, and for that reason alone she had decided to hide in there. _Know your enemy, if you know you don't want to hide in here then how many of them will want to come in?_

It made little sense at first, but hours later when things were beginning to take on the illusion of safety, she found that it was actually a fairly decent idea. For the hours that she had been nibbling the nail polish from her fingernails, nobody had so much as approached the House of Mirrors as far as she could tell. There weren't any footsteps, nothing beyond the terrifying silence in the dusty halls. As badly as it scared her, it was preferable to having somebody with murderous intents inside the House with her. At least this way, she was safe...

As she had done time and again, Sophie blinked the remaining tears away. Who was she kidding? In a Battle Royale, there was no safeness to speak of. No security. Nothing that could keep her from ending up as a badly mutilated corpse in a body bag. She had jammed the turnstiles at the entrance to the House and blocked off a few hallways with the potted plants and wooden signs from the lobby, but any boy could tear them down and any girl with half a brain could just as easily climb over those. She thought she had hidden well, but that's no guarantee that nobody had seen her go inside and was planning to kill her if she dared to step out. She even had a weapon, albeit one she couldn't handle with much grace, but what use was a fire ax when two dozen other people out there were looking to pump her full of bullets?

For six hours she had remained at the corner of the room, praying against all hope that somebody would come and rescue her. By the time the morning announcement came and went, she had only a fraction of her original hope left.

"Where did everybody go?" she couldn't help but whimper (not too loudly, somebody might hear her after all). "Somebody, please, got to be somebody to help me..."

It wasn't that she had no friends in the game either. Earlier she had received a text for help from Marla, but she didn't dare to leave what safety her hideout offered to help out the other girl. Phoebe was also one of her friends, not the closest but they did always have a great time in show choir. Then there were the guys from the band, Hank and Drake and Alyssa and Simon (_he's not in the game though_), one of them had to be able to help her out. She briefly debated sending them a text message and ask for assistance, but she didn't want to waste her allotted five messages in case she needed them later on. Not to mention, there was every chance they would just ignore her plea... _just like you ignored Marla's._

Shaking away the thought, Sophie blinked away more tears and pulled the fire ax closer to her. She hadn't dared to hold it yet, but knowing it was nearby when the time came to use it was a slightly comforting thought. _Can't be that difficult, just grab the handle and swing away, right? You don't have the upper body strength though, that thing's pretty hea-_

With a _CREAK_ that practically stopped her heartbeat, the stanchion was ripped free from where she had wedged it into the turnstiles. Hearing the noise, Sophie froze for only a moment before her heart went wild in her chest. _Shoot, somebody got in here! Holy crud, holy crud, what the heck are you gonna do now, holy crud somebody's in here!_

Sophie jumped to her feet, the fire ax already in her trembling hands. Somebody was inside her safe house, somebody was coming to get her, and the only way she could save herself would be if she got out of here immediately. Taking only a moment to throw her pack over her shoulder, Sophie acted on instinct and fled in the direction of the exits. She hadn't blocked off too many hallways there, if she was fast enough she could get out before-

Another loud _CRASH_ as whomever it was ripped down her weak barricades, then stepped over them with little concern. Sophie stifled a scream as she pushed herself to move faster. Her muscles didn't obey her, moving only with agonizing clumsiness. It was all she could do to put down step after step in an attempt to make it out...

More noises, _CRASH_es and _BANG_s that echoed louder and louder in the mirrored hallways. Sophie had a dreadful feeling that the noises didn't seem any farther away as she stumbled towards the exit (running into a few dead ends and having to double back in the process), when she turned a corner and ran squarely into Caleb's massive form. It felt like she had slammed into a brick wall and bounced off, the fire ax toppling from her grasp as she steadied herself.

Wielding a stanchion as a makeshift bludgeon, Caleb cracked it down with all the might he could muster. Though disoriented, Sophie was faster than him by half a second, throwing herself backwards as he slammed the pole into one of the mirrored walls. Glass shards and bits of silver coughed outward, some lacerating the back of her arms. Nothing fatal, nothing even remotely serious, but the sight of blood filled Sophie with more fear than she had previously imagined was possible. Staring up in soundless horror, Sophie tried to push herself to run, but the terror had paralyzed her and kept her there as Caleb raised the stanchion

_Quick, move, do something!_

Somehow she broke out of her fugue, and moving solely on instinct she dodged to the side again, narrowly escaping certain death as the floor blew up shards of tiles. She screamed finally, letting out all the despair and fright that had filled her chest. With that, she finally found the mental state to dash away, hurling her pack back at Caleb's broad chest in a faint attempt to distract him. She heard him let out an "oof" as he whipped the pack to the side, but beyond that she had no idea.

If Caleb had put his heart to it, he could have caught up to her within minutes and strangled her with his bare hands. Instead, he had paused for a moment longer than intended, allowing Sophie to get a head start over him. With the mirrored hallways reflecting the fleeing redheaded girl tenfold and then reflecting those reflections again, it was practically impossible to see where the girl really was. Ceiling, floor, walls, corners, everywhere he looked he could see several reflections of Sophie sprinting in fear.

He made a half-hearted attempt to pursue her, but with the confusion on her side, Sophie was able to make it far enough that even the dozens of reflected Sophies soon faded away. With a full dose of adrenaline spurring her, she shoved the makeshift barricades out of the way and practically leapt over the turnstiles at the entrance. Without so much as a look backward, she sprinted out into the fairgrounds. Morning sunlight shone down on her every step of the way.

* * *

Though he had allowed her to escape, Caleb Kennedy was not in the slightest bit upset. She would have made a decent first kill, but he could find better. She had lost her weapon and her pack, she was as good as defenseless out there. And in a Battle Royale, being defenseless might as well be tantamount to being dead. He had no doubts that her name would soon be included as a casualty in one of the future announcements, perhaps the next one if things were convenient enough to go his way.

As well, the girl had left behind a prize.

Dismissing the brass stanchion (with his two strikes he had dented the metal pole so far it nearly resembled a right angle) as useless and throwing it aside, Caleb knelt and picked up his prize. The redheaded girl had left it behind as she fled, not knowing or perhaps not caring that she had lost her sole weapon to him. The fire ax fitted strangely in his hands, its shaft almost too thin in his giant hands, but there was no question of its sheer lethality. One quick strike at the neck was all it would take to kill somebody with it...

Lifting the fire ax with considerable reverence, Caleb let out a smile that might have been genuine. With some hope, he could be getting a tangible first kill soon. With some luck, they could even be that little cunt Daphne who had defied him. _That vapid, worthless cunt... cut her down, squeeze the life right out of her. Yeah, that'll do well._

Armed and every bit as dangerous as he could possibly be, Caleb resumed the hunt.

* * *

While Sophie sprinted through the fairgrounds without direction, Tommy McLaren, a.k.a. Boy #8, and Karen Holmes, a.k.a. Girl #13, were rummaging through one of the woodland cabins in search for anything they could use as makeshift weapons. The cabin itself was not derelict, and from the point of view of a casual tourist it might actually be a decent place to live. Of course, given that neither Tommy nor Karen was in much of a vacationing mood, they weren't exceptionally impressed by the well-stocked bedrooms, toilets, and open kitchen (which, to their frustration, contained no kitchen knives or anything remotely sharp). They did find a selection of canned meats and vegetables, and had taken as much as they could carry along with a can opener, but aside from that their search proved rather futile.

"I can't believe it," Karen hissed as she whipped her long hair back, "this place is a shithole."

"At least there's food," said Tommy as he peeled the lid off a homemade can of venison, revealing strips of cooked and dried deer meat. He sniffed it suspiciously, briefly wondered whether he would die of severe diarrhea from some sort of bacteria, then decided not to take the risk and dropped it into the metal sink. The can clattered and spilled over, slopping broth and brown meat into the drain.

"That's disgusting," Karen wrinkled her nose, saying, "and not helpful in any way. We need to find weapons, not some sort of tinned crap that looks like something my dog barfed up."

"Yeah, and you bitchin' about it is real helpful," Tommy said, irritated. "You think I don't know we're in some deep shit here?"

"Maybe not, I don't know, but it just seems like you don't care about the fact that we're probably both gonna die in this thing!" Karen shot back. "I mean, we've been in this... this fucked up game, for more than six hours, neither of us have a decent weapon, and four people are already dead, and you're still here just... goofing off with that shit? Screw that, if you don't sober up and realize how much trouble we're in here, we'll both... shit, we'll both fucking die."

As she spoke, getting increasingly agitated and distressed, Karen couldn't help but wonder why she stuck with Tommy in the first place. Sure, they had been pretty good friends at one point, went out (and was still going out) with one another, but aside from that she had few tangible reasons to remain with him. Safety in numbers was perhaps the highest on the list, along with the fact that she didn't want to be alone and having somebody familiar around eased the anxiety, even if that somebody was a belligerent Irish political loudmouth who was highly unlikely to make it to twenty given his outspoken dissent against the government. _If this Battle Royale didn't happen that is, none of us are gonna make it past eighteen now, Christ almighty..._

She watched on as Tommy's expression darkened, his lips twitching as an acidic comeback formed at his lips. Looking to diffuse what could potentially lead to a tense situation (_well, more tense_), Karen quickly added, "Look, I don't mean to bitch you out but I'm just under a lot of stress here, so... I'm not dealing with this in the best way. I'm sorry."

To his credit, as hot-blooded as he was Tommy actually managed to bite back whatever words he had wanted to say. Instead, he ran a hand through his thatch of red hair in frustration, watching as Karen ripped a smoke from the pack in the back of her jeans (she had found it in one of the convenience stores dotting the amusement park early on, and it had helped take the edge off things) and lit it. Blowing smoke from her nostrils, she tossed him one, which he accepted gratefully.

"Thanks," he said as he fitted the cigarette comfortably in between his lips.

"So what do we do next?" Karen asked as she blew smoke. "We're shit outta luck if we don't find a gun or something."

"Yeah, I know," Tommy said in a tone that would have been registered as anger if it were anybody but Karen, "but what can we do but keep looking? There's nothing of use here, there's certainly nothing we can use in our packs."

As much as they refused to believe it, although Tommy and Karen weren't the worst off in the Battle Royale, they ranked rather low on the list. Neither were assigned nothing of particular use – Tommy's pre-determined weapon being a first-aid kit, something Karen lugged around only out of dim hope that it would prove useful later (though at the same time she feared how that possibility would come about); Karen's weapon, absurdly, had been a pair of cymbals. As weapons for self defense, they were abysmal. If they had both received better weapons, it wouldn't have been far-fetched to say they could have survived long, perhaps even form something akin to a Bonnie and Clyde couple and take the game head on, but with things as they were, survival was all they could hope to achieve at the moment. _Survival... yeah, at least you're still surviving. More than Clara or the Howland kid can say._

"We have to keep looking," Karen conceded, "something will turn up sooner or later. For better or for worse, things have to change."

She had no idea.

* * *

Tommy and Karen remained in the cabin, not because they found anything of use in there but rather out of a lack of other options. Neither knew if they could find a safer or more comfortable place to hide, and for what it lacked in weaponry, the little cabin made up in simple comforts. The kitchen offered enough canned goods and dried fruits to last a week, and the small toilet to the back of the cabin was miraculously still functional. It wasn't safe enough to test if there was electricity yet, but with the sun rising in the eastern skies, they wouldn't have to. While Karen prepared herself for a much needed snooze in one of the bedrooms, Tommy kept watch in the living room. Though his search had provided nothing of use, he had quickly made even by ripping a drawer out of the bedside cabinet and wielding it as a crude bludgeon. By no means effortless to handle, but it would have to do for the time being.

All of this was carefully observed by Adrian Perry, a.k.a. Boy #9, as he prepared to strike. Gripping the CZ-75 semi-automatic pistol tight enough that it left an imprint in his palms, he went over in his mind the basics that the gun manual had outlined, though he knew it would do no good. _You can't even pull the trigger on yourself, what makes you think you can shoot somebody in cold blood? A jackass and a slut, but still can you shoot them?_

The answer was clearly no. Adrian was no murderer, and to say that he was able to fire a gun with the precision it required would be a total joke. With some effort he had figured out how to load the gun, even set the safety the way it was illustrated in the gun manual, but firing was a different matter. Just because he could point the gun at a target didn't mean he could fire it, and just because he could pull the trigger didn't mean he could kill somebody.

But it didn't matter anyway, because he wouldn't have to fire one bullet if things go right.

Having been on the receiving end of threats and coercions for the better part of his high school life, Adrian found it fascinating in a way that he was about to do it to somebody else. Tommy and Karen weren't the kind of people to take interest in tormenting him or his kind, but the friends they kept company with were. As he crept out of the bushes, Adrian found himself not all that concerned about what he was about to do. _Not exactly eye for an eye, but it'll do._

The front door of the cabin was locked, he had seen Tommy do it with his own eyes. The chick was in the bedroom, so there was no hope there, but neither had checked if the bathroom window was secured. Of course, given that they had planned to leave as soon as they finished looting the place, the need to do so wasn't a priority on their minds. What they didn't expect was that it would give Adrian an opportunity.

The window was indeed wide open. He climbed over the windowsill and stepped soundlessly onto the bathroom mat.

Adrian wasn't as stealthy as he hoped to be; his elbow clattered the toothbrush rack against the porcelain soap dispenser. Fortunately, the slight noise escaped Tommy's notice, and he was none the wiser as Adrian inched the door open. Sitting on the couch with his back to the bathroom, the back of Tommy's head was wide open. One well-placed shot and the top of his head would have exploded, sending clumps of gore and flaming red hair every which way. Karen would certainly wake up, probably screaming and running out to see what was going on, at which point two bullets in the chest would stop her rather nicely. The jackass slumping, dead, part of his skull missing, the slut gasping on the floor as her life slipped away from the two holes in her chest. _It probably won't be as easy. But it doesn't matter now, does it?_

He spied the first-aid kit on the coffee table, next to where Tommy had rested his feet. _Damn it, no way to get to it without him noticing. Guess you'll have to do this after all..._

The reaction he got out of Tommy McLaren as he cleared his throat was one that would have been comical in any other situation. There was no way he could have missed the noise, and he hadn't. Simultaneously turning around and trying to jump to his feet, Tommy had instead managed to spill himself off the couch and into the space behind the coffee table. His legs still propped up, flailing as he tried to stand, his hands grasping for the drawer that had fallen out of his reach. With some difficulty he finally managed to turn himself in a position capable of seeing the nerd behind him. Adrian Perry was holding a pistol inexpertly as he said in an unmistakably nasal voice, "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

His heart was thumping faster than ever, even more so than the moment he had woken up to find himself in a Battle Royale, and so was Adrian's. He had planned this for hours, but doing it in actuality was nothing like that. There was every chance that this could go wrong, and that was what weighed most heavily on his mind. _Make one wrong move, lose the gun, and you could find your time cut to an unexpectedly short end..._

"What do you want?" Tommy asked, cautious, though the red fissure in his mind was threatening to split open. He forcefully suppressed it; losing his calm right now would be a very bad thing.

"I won't kill you or your girlfriend in there if you'll co-operate," Adrian practically stammered as he moved alongside the perimeter of the room. Keeping his distance from Tommy, if only to avoid any sudden moves, he slowly made his way around until he was standing on the opposite side, looking straight at where Tommy was sprawled like a movie villain in an oil drum. The first-aid kit had fallen from where it stood; the clasp had held and its contents were still undisturbed, but it now lay sideways on the wooden floor. _All the easier to retrieve._

Moving quickly – and on some level, recklessly – he grabbed up the first-aid kit, saying, "All I'm here for is this."

Without saying a further word, he made for the front door. He was moving fast, had to do so before Tommy recovered from his fugue and tried to do anything. Like anybody else at Malton High, he had heard of Tommy McLaren's legendary anger issues. Even armed with a semi-automatic pistol (albeit one he was not willing to fire), going up against his bare fists was near unthinkable. Instead, Adrian only struggled with the locking mechanism of the door. _Why won't this thing fucking OPEN?_

As it turned out, trying to open a locked door with a first-aid kit in one hand and a pistol in the other wasn't as simple as movies made it out to be. As his fingers twiddled with the lock, the CZ-75 pistol slipped from his palm, sweat-slicked, and clattered on the floor. Adrian's eyes widened, his mind already screaming at the terrorizing possibilities, but then the door swung open and the gun was slammed out of place. It spun across the polished floor, stopping only after it ricocheted off the wicker rocking chair and slid into the corner of the room.

But by then Adrian was already out of the cabin. By the time Tommy got back to his feet, flustered and furious, the red fissure threatening to rip open the way it had _that time_, by the time Karen emerged from the room sleepy-eyed and not quite knowing what was going on, by that time, he was long gone.

* * *

While Tommy worked off his frustrations by destroying a cupboard of fine china and Karen made the discovery of the loaded CZ-75 lying in the corner of the room, Adrian was gasping for breath with his back to a particularly old and creaky oak tree. His heart raced irregularly, his calves were on fire, and his mouth was dry despite the spit that flecked his lips. A thin urge to vomit stirred in his stomach. Aside from that it had possibly saved his life, running was definitely doing Adrian no particular good. Never the athlete, he was hardly surprised. As long as he got away...

Hardly even caring whether anybody was around to witness him, he ripped the first-aid kit open with the ferocity of a bear attacking a beehive. Its contents spilled out, bandages unfurling in a long white strip, miniature scissors and scalpels spinning to the soil on the ground, medication rattling as bottles tumbled out.

Had he survived all the torment of high school and made it to college, had this Battle Royale not come along, Adrian Perry would have been a medical student. His father was a hot-shot lawyer who always yapped about the dangers of feminism and how technology made his generation susceptible, but Adrian had never intended to follow his footsteps. Instead, he would have become a doctor, though which kind he had yet to make his mind up about. Most certainly not a surgeon, he couldn't even keep his hands still in air, but it would have been a career that he would relish. As it was, medical texts weren't strangers to Adrian. Being an admitted nerd, knowledge was his thing, and as an admitted nerd who aspired to become a medical professional one day, learning about the household pharmaceuticals was hardly an unexpected thing to do.

But in the end, none of that mattered. Aspirin, Loperamide, Paracetamol, Ibuprofen, Naproxen, Oxycontin, all of it tasted pretty much the same as he dry swallowed the tablets. The syrup of ipecac, he made sure to dispose of. He didn't want to vomit all that medication up, not after all the trouble he went through to get them. It took a while for him to clear up all the pills he could find, but in the end he had done it.

The pills weighed in his stomach, but that had to be imaginary.

In the skies high above him, the sun began to shine down in earnest. The few rays that penetrated through the leafy canopy offered little warmth, but to the boy who was ready to die in peace, none of it mattered at all. In two days' time, he would be dead from an overdose. Now if only he could find somewhere to stay until then.


	12. Hour 7: 46 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 7**

**46 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

"I... would like to say few words," the girl said in front of her audience.

Clearing her throat, Joanne Halperin, a.k.a. Girl #20, said hesitantly at first, "I'm not too good at this speech thing, so let me start by saying I hope this goes well. Some of you probably know I'm not really a good speaker, but I guess in this context it doesn't really matter. Today, right now, right here, all I want to say is something so the dead aren't forgotten by any of us. Today, this hour, every one of us here, we mourn the passing of four individuals from Malton District High School."

Joanne was holding a lit candle, as were all those in attendance at the cathedral. It was perhaps the most unexpected cast that had gotten together since the game had begun, but for some reason each and every one of them had decided to hang around. Some stayed because they genuinely believed in what Joanne had to say, others decided to do so because they were lost and knew no better option. Many of them would have been in safer grounds had they sought out their own hide out, but for the time being at least they had stayed.

"I don't think what the... morning announcement, what it mentioned, was anywhere near enough to... I don't know, give peace to the dearly departed and allow them proper rest. God knows, and I apologize for taking his name if any of you are offended, God knows how much dignity they will treat their remains and ours with. All I really wanted to do, was to say something, maybe conduct a short ceremony to properly honor their passing. If any of you are friends with these people, you could say a few words. It's just, these are people we've known for years. I just thought they deserved better."

Joanne paused, and as nobody spoke, allowed her head to tilt forward. Her chin sagged to the front of her chest, where a silver pendant lay on her enormous breasts. Her eyes were open, and she could see those few people in the pews before her.

Jacky Brierly, a.k.a. Boy #1, some found him to be a weird kid while Joanne knew he had the capability of being a really nice guy; more often than not he simply did not bother to try. Phoebe Lascano, a.k.a. Girl #4, a scholarly girl who had once fallen victim to a heartless jock's charms and was still suffering the consequences. Chet Donovan, a.k.a. Boy #22, sitting next to his cheerleader girlfriend Jessica Fondacaro, a.k.a. Girl #8, their hands clasped together over her right knee. Frank Greer, a.k.a. Boy #16, not somebody she would have expected with little surprise, but the fact that he was present was hardly bad news. Paige Wilcox, a.k.a. Girl #19, a rising star on the track team who might have accomplished something given time.

Joanne had little doubt that even these people would eventually die.

As nobody said anything, Joanne found it necessary to start the memorial service herself. In reality she had no idea how to, and would prefer it if somebody else took the wheel from her hands (_Holly would have known how to, if not for that airhead she's always hanging out with stealing her away_). Instead, she reached up to finger her pendant with one hand as she said, "I think since it might be a little difficult to start the... reminiscence, I could start by reading out something... I heard from my aunt's funeral. I'm only going by memory so this could be wrong, but here goes."

She took a deep breath.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep," she said as the words came rushing back. "I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints of snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle summer's rain. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die. I... don't quite remember how the rest goes, but I'm pretty sure of how it ends. If I get it wrong then I apologize, but I mean nothing but the utmost respect for Leon, Clara, Nadine, and... Lee."

She had almost said the word "even", but managed to catch it in time.

As those in the front pew remained rather silent, perhaps with the exception of the words Chet were rapidly murmuring into Jessica's ear, Joanne found herself slightly dismayed. She had hoped somebody would take the chance to mourn their friends, but it looked as though they had nothing to say. It was a darn shame, because she was fairly sure Nadine and Clara were decent people, and while Leon was undoubtedly a delinquent, she was sure he had an inner side that he didn't show easily. The only person she was not sure of was Lee; according to the announcements he had murdered Nadine. Of course, she didn't know the details, but at the same time it hardly spelled good news. But it wasn't her place to judge anybody.

"Well, if that was all," she concluded with a bit of an exhale.

"Hold on," Paige said as the others began to shuffle from the front pew, "I want to say something."

Chet and Jessica paid her no heed as the two made for the heavy doors of the small cathedral. They exited quickly, and disappeared into the outside world with even greater speed. The next time they would encounter somebody else would be hours later, but by then things would have taken a different turn. For now, they simply set off in an unknown intention that bewildered Paige. Nevertheless, she allowed them to leave because what she wanted to say didn't concern them. In point of fact, none of it had really concerned the couple, and so why they had chosen to stay behind for the makeshift memorial service was anybody's guess.

"I guess what I want to say is," Paige said as she was mindful of the eyes on her, even Joanne's, "I don't want to pretend that we're not in a Battle Royale. I think we all know just as much as each other that in this game, fighting each other is the only way to get out of here alive. I don't want to pretend that this is just any Sunday, and we're all just normal churchgoing people. Chet and Jessica know that as well as we do, that's why they're already gone, I think."

She licked her lips. She wasn't used to being listened to. As a track athlete, more often than not she had taken orders from her coach rather than dispensed them. To have people listen to her thoughts with such intent was unsettling in a way, and exhilarating in another.

"I guess what I'm saying is, if you tell me who's the sick fuck running this game from behind the scenes and I came across him flaming in the street," she said with a grim smile, "I wouldn't piss on him to put him out. But what I'm getting at, is that even though I know after we part ways, we'll all be playing the game sooner or later, I hope we all remember that fact. That our common enemy isn't each other, but the fucksticks who thought that it was a good idea to put us in this deathmatch. Whether you win this... Battle Royale, or not, I just want us all to never forget. Don't become another Julie Winnfield."

Joanne nodded, but did not otherwise respond. Some of the others seemed somewhat saddened by what she had said, though one showed little emotion.

Paige snaked her hand down to the AutoMag pistol in her holster. Noticing this, all those who had weapons immediately made to pull them out, but Paige never intended to even withdraw hers. Her movement was more out of habit; feeling the gun's reassuring weight gave her a false sense of security. Once they had noticed she had no intent to shoot them all dead, Frank lowered his own gun. So did Joanne, whose Walther PPK pistol was in her sweaty palm faster than she could imagine. Phoebe lowered the sauté pan she had been assigned. Jacky, with no real weapon to speak of, sat up a slight bit straighter.

"Are we done now?" Phoebe asked rather nervously as she pushed her black-framed glasses up.

"I think so," replied Joanne, "unless you would like to join me in... I don't know, I guess you could call it prayer, then you are always free to leave."

"Yeah," Paige said with a smile she couldn't quite muster, "good luck, all of you."

"Good luck," Jacky said simply. Pulling his pack around one arm, he walked around the girl and made for the church's doors, followed soon by Paige and Phoebe. Frank, who had said nothing until now, finally stood from where he had sat by during all that time. Instead of following the others and leaving the small cathedral, he approached where Joanne was standing. The girl looked exhausted. Having been a fat and asthmatic girl for the better part of her life, it was not surprising to see Joanne gasping for breath. Right now, she was doing so in nearly exaggerated wheezes, desperately trying to breathe in all the fresh air her lungs could hold. She looked sickly, but this wasn't anything a visit to the school nurse could cure.

"You did a nice thing," Frank said to the girl gently, "really, it was probably the single nicest thing that had ever come out of a Battle Royale, and I mean that with all the sincerity in my heart."

He waited patiently for the girl to recover from her asthma attack. Once she was confident she could speak legibly again, Joanne forced out, "Thank you for the compliment, but I believe it's only the right thing to do. Anybody with half an ounce of empathy would have done the same."

"So that's why everybody already gone like they couldn't wait to get out of here?" Frank said with a slight smile. "You could have cut the tension in here with a knife just now. I don't know if it's sixth sense, or some weird intuition thing, but you could just _tell_. Everybody in this room had been fearing somebody else would up and try to kill everybody else, and I don't blame them. I saw Paige patting her gun, and my instincts told me to pull out mine and pump her full of holes before she could do me in. I'm just relieved I had the sense to stop before I killed her in cold blood."

"It's only human nature," Joanne said hesitantly, not quite sure why the old Michael Jackson song came to mind.

Softly, she sang, "You know... why, why, tell 'em that it's human nature."

"Will you be staying here?" Frank asked as he looked into her eyes. "Until somebody comes along and do you in? Because you know that will happen."

"I know," Joanne said with a sigh that almost started up another asthma attack, "but it's just something I have to do. I don't want to spend my last hours in fear, and at least this way I'll know how I'm going. On my own terms. And I'll be doing some good karma."

"Good luck with that," Frank said genuinely as he ripped the pistol from his holster. Joanne didn't even flinch.

Frank left the small cathedral, leaving only Joanne behind with the cartoonish depictions of saints and sinners painted on leaded windows, ceiling murals, and assorted paintings. She was determined to remain rooted to the spot if she had to, but nothing was going to stop her from spending her last moments how she wanted it to be. World peace wasn't quite an attainable goal in this situation, but she would do what she could, one step at a time. Even if she would have to do the worst... so be it.

Ambling over to the front pew, Joanne sank down heavily. She could really use some rest.

* * *

At the same time, Chet and Jessica were ready to roll. They had gotten out of that god forsaken little church as soon as they could have, and in Chet's opinion it couldn't have been any sooner. Born and raised as an agnostic (though he had chosen to adapt the denomination of atheism), he had never saw the point in these meaningless ceremonies, and if Jessica hadn't insisted they stayed inside to scout out for a slight while, he would never have set foot inside. _Dead people are dead, no use worrying about them. You got yourself to worry about._

"So what do we do now?" Jessica asked coolly.

"Play the game, I guess," Chet mused as he considered his other options. _It's either that or die, and you don't want that to happen, do you? You've still got so much to live for. Mom and dad, little Jenny, varsity football, all those lifetime resolutions you haven't completed yet. And then there's Jessica but she's DOA now, if she's in this with you then she gotta die at some point._

It seemed hard to imagine, but Chet supposed that would eventually have to be true. There was no loophole that allowed two people to exit the game alive, and if he wanted to survive, Jessica had to die. It would be a real shame; for her vapidity and vanity, she was still an extremely attractive girl to have around. By his standards, Jessica was practically the defining image of the All American Girl, refined into perfection and then some more. To lose her would have been devastating in any other scenario, but right now... he couldn't care about it that hard. He had himself to think of.

Sensing that her boyfriend was deep in thought, she posed a question, "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," Chet's first instinct was to say, but then he immediately amended, "just thinking about what to do from here."

That wasn't a complete lie; he had been pondering what else to do aside before he had to eventually do away with Jessica. To say that he had to play the game was the easy part, but now he had to settle on an actual course of action. He had never been into Battle Royale like the majority of his friends were, and had very little idea about what he should do when it came to playing the game. Hunt, probably, either sweep the island in divided zones or staying put at a high traffic location. That seemed logical, but it wouldn't guarantee his victory. He couldn't leave anything up to chance if he wanted to leave the game alive. All he had was a two percent chance (made slightly lower by the fact that he had no gun). It was up to him to increase that one kill at a time.

"I'm ready, just so you know," Jessica said out of nowhere, "if we need to kill anybody else to live. I know that's probably what's going to happen, and I just want you to know that I'm prepared to do it."

"Yeah, we could be like Claude and Ronnie," Chet said, "take everybody else by surprise and just, one, two, three, smash the life out of them, eh?"

He had been assigned a sledgehammer as his weapon, and from the moment he had pulled it out of the locker with a sign that indicated 'B22: DONOVAN' back at the roller coaster station, he had been lugging it around. It was a pain in the ass to haul around and handle, but its sheer power easily made up for that.

"I could stab them with my knife too," Jessica put forth.

"So, we team up and promise not to betray each other, how does that sound?" Chet asked in as light a tone he could muster. He didn't need to cross his fingers behind his back; he thoroughly intended to break faith when it came to the right time to do so.

"Yeah, sounds good," Jessica said as she stuck out her pinky finger, thinking the exact same thing that he was.

* * *

There was a way of bending fate to his will, and Jacky Brierly was starting to master it. Random allocation had deigned that his assigned weapon would be a Polaroid camera, the kind that they claimed you couldn't buy any more film for, then started up sales when the nostalgia got people to buy them. A brand new stack of Polaroid film, each sheet blank and awaiting an instant imprint, had been provided in the pack as well, but Jacky saw little practical use. It would be a way to kill the time if he had any spare hours to kill, but even with this truly abysmal weapon, Jacky had an idea to twist fate into suiting him.

The pawn that played right into the part was Joanne Halperin. The sentimental doter had stood at the doors of the cathedral (in reality a replication of a cathedral on a smaller scale, compared to a normal-sized church it wasn't all that grander), and had called out for anybody wandering by to join her in the memorial service. She had been brash and loud, but what truly caught his attention was the Walther PPK pistol attached to her belt. She didn't even had it in hand, which would have been a mistake if any sharpshooter happened to pass by. He would surely have put one between her squinty eyes if he had a gun, but instead he saw an opportunity.

She had called out for people to join her, and against all logical reasoning, people had actually joined her. Frank Greer and Paige Wilcox were already there when he entered the cathedral (and it was Frank's near constant presence that prevented him from acting too early). Phoebe, Chet, and Jessica had all walked in after he had done so. He hadn't anticipated that half a dozen people would be stupid enough to walk in there with open arms, but in the end that had only made things even simpler.

As it turned out, nicking a gun out of a girl's holster hadn't been all that different from the time he had lifted her wallet moments before Victoria Delgado met her unfortunate end, or the time he found a convenient bundle of cash in Teresa Fleming's pocket, or the time he fished out the signed chequebook out of Velma Barbeau's rucksack.

Even finding the ammunition hadn't been difficult by any standards. It had been stocked inside her pack, minus the bullets that she had pulled out and carefully inserted into the gun's clip. With her pack unzipped and unguarded, there might as well be an invitation pinned to it. He had swiped the entire box as well as the manual booklet that came with it. If she didn't have the gun any more, well, then she wouldn't have use for any of that.

She didn't even notice anything missing as the small crowd left the cathedral one by one. Of course not, she had been occupied like everybody else, which was partially what made it so simple. So often he found that distracted people made the most effortless victims. Victoria Delgado had been distracted when he stole from her, and she had been equally distracted when that Hot Wheels ran her over.

It occurred to him that taking her gun would practically be leaving her to die. The thought made him smile. _One less competitor in that case, not that she would have lasted long on her own. So much the better.

* * *

_

Joanne was sitting in the front of the small cathedral, twisting a plastic water bottle in her hands when the doors creaked open and jingled a small bronze bell overhead. The noise didn't elude her in the silence of the church, and at once Joanne turned back. In the back of her mind, she hoped it would be Frank Greer, returning after he realized he couldn't possibly leave her alone and surrounded by hiding psychopaths. But the widening doors revealed a short, blonde girl who was most definitely not Frank. Indeed, she recognized her to be Phoebe Lascano, who had been sitting in these very pews little more than a quarter of an hour ago. She looked so terribly frightened that it didn't even occur to Joanne to pull her gun on the girl.

"Phoebe? What's the matter?" she asked at once, rushing to see if she could come to the girl's aid.

"Can I please stay here?" Phoebe replied in a manner that would have been meek if she weren't so close to tears. "I'm just, I'm so scared out there, I don't know what to do."

"Oh, sweetie," Joanne said simply.

"Please?" Phoebe pleaded, "I'm just so, oh gawd, I'm just so gawddamn scared out there!"

She looked like she was on the verge of a mental collision with a giant hulking iceberg, and it was up to Joanne to steer the ocean liner known as Phoebe Lascano's psyche away from its intended suicide course. Having worked as a voluntary helper in the school's special education program, Joanne knew something about the psychology of helping people, but even she would admit she was not a miracle worker. Still, there was no reason not to give it her best shot.

"Ease up, it'll be all right," Joanne lied, then decided to change tactics when she sensed that it wasn't doing any good, "look, you can stay here for as long as you want to. With the two of us here, we can watch each others' backs and stay safe. At least, we'll be safer than either of us will be on our own."

"But what do we do?" Phoebe said in a high-pitched whine. "Oh gawd, what do we do, whatever we do we'll still be screwed!"

"Don't be so," Joanne said, pondering what word to use, "tense. I have a gun, we can both learn to use it and take watch, at the very least we can keep out anybody who wants to intrude and only let in those who we can trust."

The question of which others can they trust was banished almost as soon as it entered her mind. Instead, she began planning what she could do with Phoebe (_not that way_, she thought despite the irrational tingle in her _down there_ place) in the next few hours. She would have to lend her the gun manual, get her acquainted with the Walther PPK as soon as she could trust her not to shoot herself, intentionally or otherwise. Handling the gun was by no means an easy task, and even she had to take hours to get used to the feeling of the weight of the gun at her hip.

Almost absently, her hand snaked to her left hip, where by all rights her holster should be resting, but nothing. Her fingers grasped air, and there was a moment of actual panic. In her confusion, she tugged hard at the part of her belt where the holster should be, succeeding at nothing but yanking her jeans up at the left side. Then she realized the familiar weight was on her _right_ side, and remembered when she had clipped on the holster on her right side for easier access. Though ambidextrous, she favored her right hand and would probably trust it to have a firmer grip. _Left brain controls the right arm, that's the same left brain that's responsible for logical thinking, right? Probably a better shot too._

She had switched her holster around then, and as she reached to her right hip the Walther PPK was indeed there, reliable as a gun could be. Pulling it out with a feeling that could be relief, Joanne thought to herself, _Don't be so tense, yeah, you could really take some of your own advice._

To a much bemused Phoebe, she said, "There's a gas-operated hotplate and some tea bags in one of the pantry cupboards. I think we could both use a cup of nice, hot tea, don't you?"

* * *

Jacky Brierly was humming a Bobby D song, something about another cup of coffee, while he flipped through the gun manual he had nicked along with the rest of the ammunition. Most of the information in it, he had already known from his mother's collection of reference books on military weapons and artillery, while the rest he was able to fill in with simple guesswork. All in all, it did not take him long to figure out how exactly the AutoMag worked. He could even say he was fully capable of operating the gun right now if anybody popped out.

He had come into the Battle Royale thinking that things could get rather difficult indeed, but so far it had been a total breeze. He even managed to find a gun, and that could possibly be what would propel him all the way to victory. All in all, he was in great spirits.

With that thought, Jacky flipped through the last few pages of the manual (_nothing new there either_) and then swiftly crammed it back into his pack. There would be no further use for it now, but there was no harm in keeping it around. It might even come in handy in a handful of scenarios.

Getting to his feet, he stalked out into the fairgrounds with his newly acquired gun in hand. He couldn't wait until he found a use for it.

* * *

Paige Wilcox was running again, and she was feeling better than she had felt in the last couple of hours. Scratch that, she wasn't just feeling good, she was feeling exhilarated, the way she always did when the wind whipped her ponytail back as she ran. She could almost pretend she was once again back on the tracks, her feet pounding on the track that surrounded the football field back at Malton High. She would be running as her coach (a strapping man by the name of Kurt Williams) timed her, hearing the cries of football players and cheerleaders practicing out on the field. Steven Naylor would be there, and he too would be inebriated by the endorphins moving in his veins, getting him pumped and ready to take on any footballer.

That was the one thing they always had in common, they both loved sports right from the day they were born, just radically different ones. Steven's activity of choice was football; Paige favored track. While Steven had confided that he found it immensely enjoyable to take on the split second decision of football (_left, no, right, oh crap he's coming at me, where the hell did Linus go?_) in addition to its physical exertion, Paige thought it was pointless to strain her mind any further. With track, all she really had to do was to push herself and sprint, dash, run, jog, adjusting her speed only with the distance she had to go. Coach Kurt Williams had said something about that, but Paige never saw the point in any additional thinking. Speed was speed, velocity was velocity, what good would stimulating her synapses do?

Except then a startling revelation seared into the front of her mind, and suddenly she was all too aware that she was not on the tracks, and neither Coach Kurt Williams nor Steven Naylor were there. She was alone in a game of death, and that was something that wouldn't be changing soon.

Though disconcerted, Paige had to admit there was a secret _thrill_ in the back of her mind. She was in danger, and that part made it seem even more thrilling than the cross country meet. The thought that somebody could be around had never occurred to her, but all the same the air seemed to be filled with a sort of tension that simultaneously frightened and stimulated her.

_I'm the fucking queen of the world_, she thought but did not shout; vigilance was after all of utmost importance. _This is my land, and I am invincible, for I'm the fucking queen._

But even the queen began to tire as the familiar strain crept up in her hamstrings. While it had definitely felt good to remain on the run, Paige knew she couldn't keep it up for seventy-two hours straight. She had to rest sooner or later, maybe even catch some sleep if she could figure out a time for it. But whatever she would do, she couldn't do it out in the open. She had to find some place to hide away first.

The fairgrounds offered no shortage of indoor places, especially as she started to jog down the main drag of the portion of Asbury Oaks that imitated a turn of the century town. The small cathedral would have made a great hiding place, but returning was out of the question. Still, there were grocery stores, gift shops, restaurants, bookstores, electronics stores (though the display window held only olden devices such as rotary dial telephones and a gigantic gramophone), and even a sheriff's office at the end of the block. Any of these places would offer some degree of cover.

For some reason, she decided not to stop at any of these places, conveniently avoiding a chance encounter with Jeremy Paisley, a.k.a. Boy #15, as he cowered in the very back of an antique shop called _Needful Things_. Instead, she continued running down the streets at a more manageable pace, turning into side streets and exploring the miniature town until she finally came to stop in front of a concert hall.

By then her legs were already burning with pain, which Paige knew to be a signal to rest before her muscles started to agonize in earnest. She had made the mistake of pushing herself beyond her limits before, and had paid for it by enduring the excruciation of lying on the two-seater coach in her living room while her stepmother inexpertly massaged her muscles. Not here, though, not in this game. Her mother wouldn't be here to help her get over it, no, she would be reduced to wracking pains while hunters and demons crept up on her. The thought was frightening enough that running suddenly seemed no longer a viable option to her. Hiding was though, at least hiding long enough for her to take a rest, recover, and get back on her feet.

The concert hall looked as good a place as any other. It was grand, it was prominent, but at the same time it looked large enough to offer plenty of hiding places. If anybody tried to come in, she was fairly certain that she could easily slip out the side door unnoticed.

It occurred to her that somebody could already be inside, but then she thought to herself, _what are the odds of that? A million other places around here, and you're worried about somebody picking the exact same one that you chose to hide in? And it just so happens to be the place that looks so conspicuous nobody would probably want to hide in? Get real._

And so Paige convinced herself that it was a good idea to push open the double doors and head inside.

* * *

Frank Greer picked his way through the orchard to where the land sloped down into a rushing stream, beyond which an electrified fence stood as the frontier between Asbury Oaks Amusement Park and the outside depths of the island. It seemed the powers that be didn't want the contestants to be able to leave the park at any point along its boundaries, and had erected fences equipped with a non-lethal nine thousand voltage coursing through it. Intending to make it to the coastline before noon came around, Frank cursed his fortune and began to plan his trek towards the nearest entrance-exit of the park. A quick glance at his map indicated that he would have to head back into the imitation town and search for the way that led out.

Doubling back into the town didn't sound like a smart thing to do, but the only other option he had was remaining stuck in this little fruity orchard, and that would have been worse than anything else. He had to head back into town somehow, take a different route and stay on the down low. Maybe if he did that, he could shake off the girls who have been following him around for the past half an hour.

_Or if they decide to take things to a further level_, he decided with a slight grimace, _then you'll have to take care of things. It won't be murder, just self defense, and that's as legal as any other thing you do in this Battle Royale._

The pain in his right wrist was beginning to assert itself again, but fortunately he was a left-hander and his aim was as reliable as ever. Mindful of the general direction where the girls lurked, Frank made a cursory check of his revolver (_fully loaded, the hammer's good to go too_) and prepared to head back. It was a necessary risk, and if the girls decided to make a move... well, too bad for them. Two well-placed gunshots, one in each of their chests, would impede them rather effectively.

Frank hoped it wouldn't have to come to that, but in the back of his mind he knew he would do it mercilessly if it was what needed to be done. He didn't believe in all that survival of the fittest bullshit that Julie Winnfield spouted, but at the same time he knew what was indubitably true – kill or be killed. If somebody wanted to kill him, he would have to kill them before they could do him in. _Not a competition, not even a game, this is just survival._

That thought was in his mind as he saw Nicole Reiniger, a.k.a. Girl #14, and Holly Richmond, a.k.a. Girl #15, emerged from the bushes. The two girls looked utterly frightened of him, but the sight of the shotgun in the hands of that redheaded cheerleader was enough to spur him to action. Without allowing either of them the time to speak, Frank whipped out his Colt Python revolver and fired off two reflexive shots. Holly – the blonde girl with twin ponytails swaying by her face like curtains drawn open and bunched – whipped back like she had been shot. For a moment, Frank had a horrifying vision of a misshapen lump of lead searing its way into her heart. But then Holly staggered back to her feet uninjured, screaming and kicking and trying to run for it. Her friend Nicole, having ducked down and not quite sure what to do now, gripped around Holly's waist in an attempt to stop her from sprinting off. The two shots Frank had just fired zipped through the branches of several fruit-laden trees, raining down green leaves and oranges.

_Utter chaos_, Frank thought as he struggled to remain in control of the situation.

Thinking and acting quickly, he bounded over to Nicole and wrestled the shotgun from her grasp. She put up as valiant a resistance as she could manage, but in the end he ripped the shotgun from her arms with little effort. The blonde girl had no discernible weapon, but all the same he kept a careful eye on her. With his revolver trained at the girls, he took a slow step backwards.

"Don't move a muscle," he threatened, "I don't want to see so much a tremble or I will end you here and now, I swear to god!"

Nicole did indeed tremble, but in any event Frank ignored it. So did Holly, and he paid her as much attention as he did the other girl. That was the first mistake he made in the Battle Royale.

In his mind, Frank briefly debated firing off another shot to frighten the girls into submission, but decided to conserve the ammunition. It was a silly, impractical thought anyway, why in the world would he need to scare the girls any further? As soon as he was sure they were unarmed (he had no intention of giving Nicole her shotgun back, and Holly could still be concealing a weapon in that long-sleeved sweater she always wore), he would leave them behind, worse for the wear but then that was their fault for following him around.

"Alright, I take it you girls want to live, so do as I say and dr-" he said commandingly, suddenly cut off as the ground unexpectedly lowered behind him. He had been striding backwards steadily, and not seeing the downhill slope that led to the streamside, Frank took a misstep. Losing his balance, he pawed desperately for solid ground. One foot crumpled (thankfully no more serious than a sprain) beneath him as he slid down the hill in lost control. The gun had been flung out of his grip, landing on the grass where a quick acting Holly snatched it up.

Juddering, rolling on his shoulder then a throbbing kneecap, he rolled down to the side of the stream. Fortunately he managed to catch himself to a stop before he fell into the water, but unfortunately the girls now had complete control of the situation as far as he saw it.

He was still a little dazed when Nicole and Holly approached him. Nicole was in possession of her shotgun again, though she still couldn't figure out how to fire it and probably would not have the strength to handle it even if she did. Holly was holding his gun the way somebody held a tainted object, clutching it with the tips of her fingers to minimize contact. Her finger was threateningly on the trigger though, that he did not miss.

"Dun'fire!" he cried out, tasting a salty liquid as blood streamed from his nose. "Dun'fire, pleez, dun!"

"Oh sweet merciful Jesus," said Holly in a timid, gasping voice, "what in the world do we do now?"

Taking deep gasps of air to prevent herself from losing it all at once, Nicole replied with the only thought that was on her mind, "I think this puts us in control now."

* * *

Paige walked through the lobby of the concert hall as though she had all the time in the world. There was a reception counter stacked with documents and office stationery, and beyond that a corridor that led into the main seating area of the concert hall, and further beyond that a stairwell that led to the upper seating area overlooking the floor below. She had no interest of heading into the reception area (_pointless_) or the floor above (_no way to escape, too risky_), and thought she was rather like Goldilocks as she assessed her remaining option. _Too dangerous, too uncomfortable, think you'll ever find somewhere just right? Not likely._

With a mental _screw it_, Paige began to creep further into the concert hall. She intended to head for the main seating area, find some way to climb on to the stage, then make it to the backstage area. There had to be dressing rooms, studios where they controlled the lighting and the sound system...

It occurred to her that she should be more cautious. Somebody could already be inside, and she wouldn't want to drop dead the moment she stepped in because some psychotic little shit had a bazooka aimed at the doorway and an overzealous trigger finger.

Almost compulsively, she reached her hand to the holster at her waist and found nothing. It was like she had stepped onto a floor that wasn't really there, and her bowels fell through her lower body into non-existence. A quick stream of thoughts scurried through her mind – _oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, can't be, did you lose your gun, that would be crap_ – but the most immediate thought on her mind was of her immediate future. What was she going to do now? Without her gun, how would she fare? How had she lost her gun (_but that's irrelevant now_) and could she find another weapon? There was very little hope of finding another firearm now, unless somebody else happened to lose theirs as well, but even something solid to wield would be better than her bare hands.

Distracted by her dismay, Paige did not notice the sound of footsteps approaching the concert hall.

There was a sudden sensation of being watched, and that she did pay heed to. She spun around on her feet, looking around for any signs of things going wrong. But there was nothing, not even the slightest disturbance of the bushes across the road.

She felt quite overwhelmed. Everything had happened so fast. First she was in the Battle Royale, then the next thing she knew she had lost her gun, and now somebody could be waiting around to butcher her. _Oh god..._

Paige rushed to the reception counter, hoping to find at least a pen or a pair of scissors with which she could use to gouge somebody's eyes out. What he found was a dozen steps better. A old-fashioned paper cutter, the kind with a stationary pad to hold the papers with, and a long, curved stainless steel blade on the right side that could be cleaved down like the guillotine that had been used to execute Marie Antoinette. The paper guillotine itself was not completely worthless as a weapon, but she could take it a step further. Gripping the blade by its base, she wrenched it out from the pad of the cutter. It popped loose with surprisingly little effort, the bolt flying off across the desk calendar.

She thought it must be an engineered move on the game designer's part – she knew enough that they always left a variety of improvised weapons within the playing field – but in any event, it accounted to absolutely nothing. Wielding the long blade, Paige felt a very microscopic kernel of hope burrow back into her heart.

It was better than having absolutely nothing, after all.

Paige decided she had to stick with her original plan. Find someplace to hide backstage. If she could do that, maybe she would begin to feel secure, and maybe then she could finally stop suppressing the panic and let every little emotion out. Maybe then, but absolutely not now. For now, she would have to take care of herself first.

She had to first take a moment to confirm there was indeed nobody following her. Then she was moving fast.

* * *

The girl hadn't noticed him, and that was good luck as far as he was concerned. It wasn't that he was afraid; she couldn't have done any real damage anyway, with her tiny fists and those long legs. That curved blade she picked up could be troublesome, but not when he had such a superior weapon. It came to him by a combination of skill and luck, and it would serve him well. Of that he was sure.

Seconds later, he pushed through the double doors, making minimal noise even as his large frame squeezed between the twines of wood and glass.

It was a hunt, and that running bitch was game in more ways than one.

* * *

The concert hall was indeed grand and capacious, with enough seating for no less than five hundred, possibly a thousand, to occupy the hall in relative comfort. And relative was a term that downplayed the luxury; each wine red plush seat was wide enough to fit most obese persons, and were equipped with a drink holder that doubled as an ashtray on each armrest. Having been running around for the better part of an hour (not to mention the several hours before meeting Joanne and the others), Paige had an impulse to sink into one of those chairs and rest her aching muscles.

But it wouldn't be safe. She would be sticking out sorely in the hall, a lone seated figure in a sea of empty cushions. She would also have her back to the door, which would open her up to practically anybody who happened to wander in. No, she decided, backstage was much safer.

Ambling up the red-carpeted aisle, feeling like a terribly out-of-place C-lister celebrity at a tremendous media event (_Battle Royale_). It felt like half an hour before she finally made it to the end of the hall, though in reality it was closer to half a minute; even exhausted she walked faster than most people did.

At the end of the aisle, right where a standing microphone would be if an emcee were taking questions from those in the audience, she took a quick detour around and ascended by the stairs on the side of the stage. Only when she was atop the stage did she notice a Steinway grand piano on the stage. It was black as the most exotic black pearls, and shiny enough that she could use its surface as a mirror that dulled all the colors. In the reflection on the surprisingly big plate, she could see herself standing over it, her hair swaying in drifts that had escaped from her ponytail, still clad in the track runner's uniform she woke up in. Behind the reflection of Paige, the ceiling of the concert hall was the expansively tiled background.

Paige was mesmerized by the blackened reflection of herself, but this time she did not miss the footsteps. They echoed from every corner of the spacious hall, but the source was undoubtedly from the aisle.

And indeed, there was somebody trotting down the aisle. He walked with slow and heavy steps, and though it would have taken him a while to reach the stage and longer still to find a way to reach where she was standing, Paige's thoughts were not about escaping at all.

_If I still had my gun, I could shoot him_, she thought, _not playing the game, not entirely, just self defense. After all, he's coming after me, he's trying to get me, right? He can see me standing up here with my guillotine blade, but he's still approaching, only one logical conclusion, he's not afraid of me and he's here to kill me._

Goosebumps stippled into existence on her arms. She looked up, meeting the dark man's eyes.

_Oh good god. Please, I'll be good, I'll be careful, just please let me get out of this._

She turned to run. On the floor below her, with an earnest grin that showed predatory teeth, Caleb Kennedy, a.k.a. Boy #25, began to pursue her with complete determination.

* * *

She had barely rested before it was necessary to start running again, only this time there _was_ competition. She was not alone now, and although that had felt like the world's worse feeling for a rather long time, at least there was no immediate danger. Everything was different now, not simply different but completely overturned. There was a monster in pursuit of her, a hulking monster with wildly swinging claws and powerful muscles. She might have fashioned a halfway decent weapon out of the paper cutter, but there was no fighting _this_. Paige knew the time to run, and this was it.

She turned to run in what felt like incredibly slow motion; one leg first shot out before her, clopped down on the solid wood of the stage, then it tracked behind her like it was on a conveyor belt and her other foot strode out. It seemed all too slow, like she was being replayed on television in the determination shot of two runners whose time was too similar to call by eye.

All the while, the monster was catching up. She couldn't see if he was, didn't want to see really, but all the same she knew it had to be. What else could he have been here to do? He was going to kill her, and with that twisted ax he wielded it wouldn't be a difficult task. If she still had her gun, she could have shot him right where he stood, but hurling the newly found blade at him wouldn't do a whole lot of good.

Her only hope was escape.

Despite the pain starting to build up in her thighs, Paige shot out like a dart and made for the backstage area. Behind her, she could hear the heavy, juddering sounds of soles striking wood – undoubtedly whoever was pursuing her. She didn't have the sound mind to analyze whom it had been, but she didn't have to. Escape, that was her priority, she could escape from the monster and then figure things out later. Except... could she really escape? Or even fight back in the event that he caught up to her? Could she be capable of any of that? She knew she was faster and more agile than him, but she had been running for an awfully long time.

_Don't think about it, just run, let the adrenaline push you and run. Just get the fuck out of here._

Grabbing a handful of the heavy red curtain that divided stage and farther back, she flung herself through and stumbled. It did not send her sprawling, but Paige lost her balance long enough that it afforded her precious seconds. Fearful that this could lead to Caleb catching up (she was fairly sure it was him), she tried to put on an impossible burst of speed. It was, indeed, impossible, and her muscles seared painfully with the strain. She only managed two further steps before the blinding pain sent her crashing to the floor.

Paige was too terrified to even scream. She tried to scramble away, figured through the haze her fear had placed upon her mind that it wasn't getting her anywhere, then turned around halfway if only to get a better grip on her situation. That was all she had time to do before Caleb brought the fire ax down with all the might he could muster. Considering his impressive muscle mass, it was an enormous deal of might that propelled the head of the ax downwards. Whether intentionally or not, the strike missed Paige's head by mere centimeters, and instead it cleaved deep into her shoulder. Paige's collarbone was shattered along with a great number of ribs, many of which were snapped by the sheer force that jolted through her body as the ax struck. Paige was not aware of that; she was only aware of the tremendous fire that had overtaken her entire chest and ripped away any sensation in the right side of her body and a great deal of what was happening on the left.

Blood gushed from her wound in vast quantities, turning the dusty floor on which she laid into a swamp of gore. With eyes that had glazed over, Paige could just barely see as a powerful hand gripped her tightly by the part of her neck below her chin, holding her still as Caleb yanked the ax out of her body. She choked out loud, unable to even form a halfway coherent sound as she was tossed to the side like a bisected rodent still stubbornly clinging onto the blade of the ax glued by its own innards.

Some of Paige's own innards were indeed spilling out the side of her body, where the ax had sunk in a second time. Paige's brain, though largely disconnected with the rest of the nerve endings in her body, had the coherence to issue an ephemeral _when did that happen_.

For the most part, she couldn't even bring herself to care, for a brilliant blackness had filled her vision. In it she saw not her parents, not her grandparents, not even little Marcie or her best friend Mariel, not Coach Williams.

Just a terrible darkness.

* * *

In her final moments, Paige's body had reacted to the traumatic injuries by convulsing, her waist contorting in near impossible angles, her legs crashing up and down on the shiny wooden floor of the stage. With a surprising amount of blood spilling from her lips, she began to make a growling noise. Caleb thought she might be having a seizure, and the only way he could think of silencing her was by slamming the butt of the ax into her head like a sledgehammer, denting the top of her skull and drawing blood like a red lace fan. That only caused her seizure to intensify, so instead Caleb decided to go for a hands on approach, gripping a handful of her long black hair. Soaked heavily in blood, her hair slicked out of his grip. _Shit, who knew it was this hard to kill a person?_

He let go of her hair and seized her by the throat. Handling her body much like the way a particularly violent two-year-old would handle a rag doll, he hurled her headfirst into the grand piano. She collided noisily into the solid instrument, then lay against the side of the piano in a mess. Her long hair had gotten snagged between the plate and the rod that supported it, dangling her body off the ground like a heavily damaged puppet. Her legs folded into an awkward, almost bone-twisting kneel beneath her.

She was undoubtedly dead. Probably had been for a couple minutes now.

He had killed her.

Caleb stood over her bloodied and broken body, wondering what his next move should be. He had every intention to kill her, and now he had done that. It seemed like a very surreal thing to do, because up until this moment Caleb didn't realize what murdering another human being was like. Sure, he had psyched himself up for the task, assessed that special blind rage he only released when facing against an opposing team on the rugby fields, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

_Not the time for thinking now. This is Battle Royale... just focus on the moment, do everything you can to make sure you emerge as the winner._

If anybody else was there to see Caleb at that moment, they would probably have shrunk away and ran like hell for their lives. It was a recognizable look – one he had donned many a time on the rugby fields. He was once again in his element now.


	13. Hour 8: 45 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 8**

**45 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

By the time the eighth hour of the game rolled around, George Caiger, a.k.a. Boy #10, was getting seriously pissed. He had intended to head towards the hotel, maybe pick up a kill or two along the way. With the police baton he had found in his pack, this would not be much of a problem. It was still early, and there were bound to be girls running around without any conceivable plan. There were bound to be people who still couldn't accept the reality of the Battle Royale. People with loaded pistols and sharpened blades who weren't willing to use them. And that would suit his purpose perfectly, these sweetly dumb people who had never seen an episode of the game and had no idea what to expect.

In a way, he had almost expected it to be easy. Of course, having experience in backyard brawling probably helped, and though he would never admit it aloud, being a devout follower of the Battle Royale series helped as well. And by all rights it would have been easy...

...if not for the fact that he couldn't navigate to save his life. The map he could handle, and by taking the more conspicuous landmarks as signposts, he could even make his way around the island with some precision. But that was where his luck ended; everything else suddenly became hopelessly, well, hopeless. The Asbury Hotel protruded high above the woods and attractions on the island ground, but for some reason heading straight towards it seemed all but impossible. He had intended to reach the hotel within an hour or so. Instead, three hours later, he had gotten no closer. _How is this even possible? _

In a way, George had exceptional fortune without knowing it. Had he successfully reached the hotel, he would more than likely have been gunned down by Brooke Hilton, a.k.a. Girl #22, and bled out within seconds. What saved him from this untimely death was an abysmal sense of direction; instead of moving directly towards the hotel as he had intended, he had instead been moving in a wide arc around it, coming no closer than he had been even after three hours or trekking.

He did, however, come close to the pair of girls and the boy wandering in the nearby woodland.

* * *

Alicia Kerr, a.k.a. Girl #21, was no stranger to high school politics. Having been somewhat of a political enthusiastic throughout middle school, she had nearly single-handedly initiated a series of campaigns that most children at that age would be too young and single-minded to appreciate. Intending to coast through high school and college doing what she did best, her young ambitions were unexpectedly derailed by an all too common circumstance that many a girl would be familiar with – young love.

She had met Elijah Ricks, a.k.a. Boy #21, in their sophomore year, during that pointless United Nations thing they did every year. She had been Belgium, while he had taken on Azerbaijan with the rationale that lesser known countries were free to make up their own cultures and histories and nobody would doubt a thing. She had giggled at that, and swayed by his charm she practically adhered to him the whole night. Topped with a cowboy hat laden with fake fruit, Elijah had spent the night joking around with her, making fun of Mariel Valverde's lousy imitation of Russia and laughing louder than everybody else when Melissa Feltz, representing Mexico, walked into the room in a hastily (and crappily) constructed maid outfit. It was oh so wrong, but to Alicia it felt right.

She was fairly certain that Elijah, at least in part, had similar feelings for her. He seemed to have genuinely enjoyed that night, and even the other times they hung out. Though she was not a member of his clique and probably never would be, she couldn't help but want to spend more time with him.

The opportunity came about two years later, when he announced his desire to run for student council president. Alicia had coveted the title as well, and with Virgil Freeman, a.k.a. Boy #24, being her only outspoken opponent so far, it would have been a breeze. Nobody liked Virgil, at least not enough to vote him president. She would surely have gotten the title if she wanted. But Elijah and his friends were running now, and though she was not unconfident that she couldn't come out on top, she didn't want to. Not if it meant she would have to go against Elijah. That would only worsen the already wobbly to start with relations between them, and if it could develop into something else...

And so she had stepped down as a running candidate. Her friends were shocked, Elijah was surprised but seemingly unmoved, and Virgil... well, who cared what he thought.

In the end she might have regretted that decision the slightest bit, but by then it was too late. Elijah won, he and Jolene and Alyssa and Frank and a bunch of their subordinates formed Malton High's newest student council. Looking on with nothing but delight for Elijah (_and maybe a bit envy_), Alicia had clapped as loudly as everybody else. She had voted for him, of course, how could she not? He deserved it, after all. He really was a great guy.

Not that Alicia was entirely out of the political scene. She joined the student council under Elijah's lead, taking the part of Publishing Officer. It was a relatively junior post compared to what she initially hoped for, but that was okay. Now she'd have a lot more time to spend with Elijah...

...or so she thought. The year passed by quickly, and all the time she had to spend with him alone added up to barely two hours. Adding insult to injury was that a girlfriend had come out of nowhere, that Rhodes girl. A goody-two-shoes, two-faced, lying _bitch_ if she's seen one before. Oh, how she seethed with anger and jealousy! How she simply loathed her guts! Many a night she had made voodoo dolls with her resemblance and idly stabbed pins through her face while leafing through Elijah's online profiles. Each photo of the couple only got her madder. _Oh, if only..._

But then came the Battle Royale, and it proved to be a blessing in disguise. Sure, they would probably all wind up dead (_except that whorish, horse-faced bitch_), but Gabby wasn't here to stop things from progressing naturally now. If she could somehow find him, maybe she could right what was wrong...

* * *

"Come out of it," Bonnie Nichols, a.k.a. Girl #6 said testily as she snapped her fingers together inaudibly. Normally the most affectionate of people you'd run into around Malton High, even she had to admit the game's environment had turned her into somewhat of an irritable individual. Add to the fact that her travelling partner was an even more pissed off Alicia Kerr, and it wasn't surprising that she was pretty much ready to call it quits.

Except there was no way to prematurely retire from a Battle Royale short of death. That was what scared her most.

"Keep your pre-menstrual panties on, I'm good to go," Alicia shot back, a faint blush forming on her cheeks. On her dark skin it was hard to notice, but all the same she turned away for fear that Bonnie could deduce what she had been thinking. Her crush on Elijah wasn't exactly something she had kept under the covers from her social circle of friends, but given that Alicia had every intention of leaving Bonnie behind (_or... you know_) once she could find Elijah, it wasn't anything she wanted to put the light on.

Instead, Alicia sped up and hurried down the overgrown trail they had been treading down. If it was a ploy to distract Bonnie from her true intentions, it went off with nary a complication. The blonde girl, noticing her friend's sudden fast movement, jumped and looked frantically around for an approaching intruder. Somebody with a machete or a handful of claws, like the monsters in those horror movies she sometimes watched against her better instincts at sleepovers.

"Is somebody there?" she asked frightfully as she caught sight of movement in the bushes.

There was no reply, not even from Alicia. Suddenly noticing that her friend was farther ahead than she thought, she sprinted down the path, batting branches and twigs out of her way. With a slim build, making her way around wasn't as much a problem as it was for most of the other contestants in the woods. In fact, after several hours of dodging and weaving around trees and grassland, she could almost call it a secondary instinct. She didn't even think to pull out her assigned weapon, a razor sharp machete currently wrapped safely in a sheath hanging from her belt. With her flight in perfect condition, she wouldn't even need to fight.

So fast she was that she overtook Alicia, leaving the girl behind for a change. She heard her friend cry out, and was going to turn around when a police baton slammed into her face. Her nose was mashed into broken bone and cartilage by the force, leaving her stunned and bleeding from the nose as she slid out. With her face caught around the tightly wielded baton, her legs flew forward and momentarily lifted into the air, before Bonnie fell unceremoniously onto her ass.

Alicia shrieked, both of her hands reaching behind for her weapon.

"Hello there, girls," George said with a grin that wouldn't look out of place on a mad hatter or his hare. The police baton that extended from his fist was gleaming with Bonnie's blood at places. Then it was nothing but a black smudge whipping through air as George swung it fiercely at the downed girl.

"Oh god Bon-Bon, run, get out of here!" Alicia shrieked as she took off.

Bonnie was still confused, but she leapt to her feet as a vicious gust missed her head by inches, instead flicking one of her braids around the back of her neck. Like a slap on the ass, it spurred her into action. The girl dashed wildly away, hoping to catch up with her friend before the psychotic man could murder her. She could still see Alicia up ahead, with her headful of dark dreads she was unmistakable. If she was fast enough, she could (_outrun?_) catch up with her, and then... the old joke about a tiger came to mind. _But you can't do something this horrible, can you? You'll be alone..._

She almost tripped, but steadied herself. She didn't look back but she knew George must be after her.

It suddenly occurred to her that she had a weapon. Reaching for the sheath at her waist, she made to pull out her machete. The blade slid out in one smooth movement, then it was in her hands, juddering from her constant movement as well as the uncontrollable shaking of her hands. Could she really do any damage with this? In able hands it would be a deadly weapon, but in hers it might as well be a rusted flintlock pistol for all the potential it held.

George was catching up. She could hear him sprinting up from behind her, breathing heavily and with feverish abandon. In nothing but the utmost fright, Bonnie turned around with her machete held high, driven only by the dim hope that she could kill him and get out of this scot-free. The look in her eyes had become focused only on an indistinct spot – with her pupils shrunk as far as they could go, her peripheral vision all but disappeared. The only thing she was focusing on was the blade's handle in her hands, and the trajectory trailing down to slice the boy in halves-

Then the baton slammed down on the back of her machete, jolting it out of her hand. In what felt like slow motion, Bonnie watched the blade carve an invisible arc through air as the baton struck her outstretched arm, snapping the bones between the elbow and wrist. A sensation of fire bolted down her arm, followed by a feeling like the time she had gotten her impacted wisdom teeth pulled and the dentist accidentally gave her too much anaesthesia, and there was still a phantom sensation of pain despite the painkillers.

It was the combination of pain and numbness that got her moving again. Fighting back was useless, that much she had seen. Her only hope now was getting away.

"Alicia? Where are you?" Bonnie cried out confusedly as part of her arm swung awkwardly at the broken junction. It couldn't even move on her own accord. Dimly she registered that even if she got out of this alive, she would never be able to swim as well as she used to. _Guess who Coach Barbie won't be sending to the meets. She'll probably let one of the other girls take my deserved place, probably that Melissa bitch, or Nadine... oh wait, she's dead already, isn't she?_

"Alicia?" she called as she veered off the path, delving into the heavily overgrown woodland. Vines snagged, branches whipped, leaves scratched as she hurried down a random, winding path.

From faraway, somebody responded. In her pain and confusion, Bonnie didn't even hear.

* * *

George picked up the machete from where it had fallen, among the dark soil and twisted roots and wilted vegetation that made up the bottom layer foundation of an unrestrained forest. Already, a handful of crisped leaves had already fallen atop of it, scattered from when the girl had brushed by a mesh of branches. He wielded the machete like its handle was crafted to accommodate his fingers. Flexing the muscles of his arm, he swiped at a protruding branch that quickly detached from where it had been growing, a cluster of leaves blooming at the other end.

Holding it between his fingers, George examined the cut end of the branch. Smooth, like it had been quickly severed. _Nicely done._

Looking between the path of broken twigs where the blonde girl had run down and the direction where her black friend had escaped toward, George found himself pressed to make a quick choice. _Blondie or the cotton-picker? No contest there.

* * *

_

"Who's there?" Elijah Ricks said cautiously.

Not too long ago he had almost been victim to a mortal chest wound as a series of bullets raked over the bushes he had been hiding near. Fortunately for him all of the shots missed by at least a yard, and he managed to escape before his assailant could gather which direction he headed. But that momentary encounter confirmed what he had been fearing for quite a while, especially after hearing the morning announcement of the four fatalities – people out there were willing to play the game, and at least one of them had a rapid-fire artillery, perhaps even one of those powerful mini-guns.

In his mind, he went over the list of eliminations. Leon was first, Clara after him, then Nadine and Lee. But didn't the report mention something about Marla and how she had shot Lee full of holes? That could mean she was the one who had been firing at him not long ago. Knowing Marla Thompson, it didn't seem possible, but then again Battle Royale had never been an odds-winning possibility in his life either.

Could it really be? The same Marla Thompson who had frequented the halls of Malton High with a proud smile and feigned bravery, despite all that had been said against her? Elijah didn't think so. _But what do you know? Or rather, how much do you really know? These people, you don't know anything about what they're capable of._

There was a sudden noise – it sounded like a girl screaming – and then more gunshots, this time from farther away on the island. Elijah had no idea if there was any correlation between the two sounds, but if there was a gunman holding some innocent girl hostage (_it could be Jolene or Alyssa_) he couldn't just sit on his hands and do nothing, could he?

Wielding his aluminum baseball bat Louisville Slugger in striking position, he approached the direction where the scream came from.

Elijah wasn't curious for long. Barely a minute after he had decided to change paths, there was a second scream. And then moments later, a girl came tearing out of the woods, sprinting so fast that the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes left a horizontal trail. She was making coarse noises with the back of her throat, like the panic would not even allow her to scream like she normally would if she could.

Recognizing her, Elijah quickly called out, "Alicia!"

Against herself, perhaps out of the daily instinct that has honed her into turning whenever somebody calls out her name in the halls, Alicia turns around. And it seems unbelievable, but it really is her. For a girl caught in this deathtrap of a game, Alicia looks reasonably hassled (_probably has a gun-toting murderer after her_). Dark dreads populated her head like an overgrown house plant, looking even wilder now that she was beginning to shake out of sheer terror.

"Holy crap," Alicia babbled out, stark-eyed, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Debating whether she was somebody he could use (and eventually deciding that _anybody_ could be helpful right now as long as they weren't looking to pop a cap in his ass), Elijah said with his baseball bat raised in batting position, "Who're you running from? Is somebody after you?"

"I don't know," Alicia said tersely, then spat out, "George."

"Come again?"

"George, I don't know, Werner or Peyton, or, or Caiger, or one of those names. He's after me, I think he's got Bon – Bonnie, already, he could be after me." Alicia suddenly seem to look twice as small as she had; a huddled mass of skin over bone with hair and rags layered on top. Tears dripping off at the eyes. Shoulders heaving up and down with sobs.

If anything came charging out of the woodland onto the little beaten trail, Elijah was sure he would have slammed the baseball bat on it with all his strength out of pure reflex anyway. But just to made sure he added that bit of resolve to strike whatever it was down and repeatedly hit them while they thrashed, whether it was Marla or George or Bonnie that came running. But for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds there was nobody. Half a minute, then a full one. Counting up, two, and then three minutes of silence. Him trying to control his breathing, keeping the baseball bat still was an impossible task. Alicia's sobbing had transcended to a weird hiccupping noise now.

Bracing himself for a particularly ironic surprise, Elijah said, "Nobody's there."

Indeed, that was the case. The leaves remained undisturbed from where Alicia's relentless tearing through had left them, dangling dangerously from battered twigs and branches. The air was still with unfulfilled anticipation. Somewhere, out of sight, a squirrel chirped.

All the time keeping the corner of his vision on Alicia, he said, "Maybe he's not after you."

Finally, he said, "Maybe he's gone."

* * *

George crashed through bushes, branches, even knocked a particularly thin and rotting tree off to the side, in his hurried attempt to get at the girl. The police baton, now hanging at his waist, was replaced by the machete that the girl had dropped. At the very least, it made clearing the vegetation from his path much less of a hassle. At most, well, he would have to catch up with the girl first...

With renewed vigor, he hacked away at the undergrowth that stood between him and the girl.

* * *

Bonnie ran as fast as her legs would take her, hardly with the thought to mind the branches that battered her face. All she could see was a mess of leaves and twigs, like a nature lover's kaleidoscope, rotating and generating green and brown shapes before her eyes. Her pack bouncing at her side, it's the only thing she can rely on now that she's lost her machete. _Stupid, stupid move._

It didn't matter now. Maybe later, when she would be in the clutches of false safety, she could afford some time to think about it. Right now, all she could do is run as fast as her legs would take her.

* * *

He could hear what sounded like a girl tearing through woods. She was slowing, definitely, maybe tired from delving into the unfamiliar terrain. The adrenaline would be wearing off now, and she would be feeling the ache in her muscles. Tiring all the time, until her sprinting became staggering became a dead stop.

Catching a definite glimpse of blonde hair from up front, George readied to strike.

* * *

Hearing the sound of somebody coming up behind her, she stifled a scream. Terror was coursing through her veins, pushing her to go faster than she ever had, but it still wasn't fast enough. The boy, no, the monster, the man who was trying to kill her, he'll catch up.

Bonnie was still screaming when the sound of gunshots rattle out, rapid-fire, like a typewriter.

* * *

The girl stumbled, then fell over flat in the soil. Somebody with a clearer peripheral vision would have noticed a dark-haired individual several yards to the west, weaving behind trees. He might've noticed that the sprawled girl was flopping around in a whole lot of dark red. That her sneaker-encased foot was kicking in pain, and looked like a part of it was missing. Tiny flesh-colored bumps, two or three in number, littered the soil. On closer examination, one would've seen the severed toes with their white-tipped toenails, torn from the foot by a rogue shot.

All of this was missed by George Caiger. The only thought on his mind was _gotcha!_ as he leapt over a tangle of leafy bush to land before the girl.

"Get away from me, you ballistic brute!" Bonnie shrieked in fright and confusion, pushing at the ground to crawl away from the approaching boy. Her pack had spilled open next to her, and gripped in one hand was her flashlight – the closest thing she could grab.

_Come on, you got this. You got this down, don't you?_

Wielding the machete that he had taken from the girl, George brought it down forcefully in a stabbing motion. Bonnie's constant movement made it difficult to make a clean kill, but nevertheless the blade impaled her at the thigh. With a wide-eyed squeal, Bonnie instinctively made to pull the blade out. She wrapped her fingers around the machete, trying in desperation to pull it out of herself as George kept her pinned like a dead butterfly behind glass. The cutting edge of the blade sank into her fingers as she tugged with all her might, to no avail.

It was clear to George that the girl's injury would not keep her alive for long. With some other gunslinger around here (he did not see anybody besides Bonnie, but he had heard the surprisingly near shots as well), it was in his best interests to escape before anything else could happen to him. He got the girl, after all, and it wasn't as though she would even have the tiniest chance to recover from the grievous wounds. Really, any moment now she could bleed out. _Just grab the machete and go._

With a quick movement, he yanked the machete out of Bonnie's thigh, freeing the dying girl. She yelped, aloud, then quickly went quiet as her body began quivering. Blood gushed down her thigh like a menstrual nightmare out of that old prom movie. Her eyes rolled up into her head to show the whites.

A sudden volley of gunfire sprayed out from behind a tree, getting George to instinctively crouch to the ground. Shredded bark and leaves filled the air like confetti, along with the rich scent of blood and gunpowder. _God damn it, better move fast or this guy could gun you down. Think quick, act quick, my friend._

He waited in the bushes with his heart jolting in circles around his esophagus. The gunfire seemed to be ceaseless, lasting for what felt like hours before it finally paused with a barely audible click. _There's your chance, go!_

Leaping to his feet, George made to sprint away as fast as he could. Engaging the enemy in a fight was a viable option, but he didn't even bother to pretend it had more than an inkling's chance of working. Better to stay on the safe side, just get out of here as fast as he could. He could easily acquire a firearm later on, beating down some other girl like Blondie here. But not right now, because really... _taking on a fucking machine gun with a machete, that's not taking risks, that's plain suicide._

Running away, he didn't expect to tread on a solid cylinder on the ground. In normal circumstances he would have caught his balance with little effort, but in his haste George had lost sight of his sense of balance. His feet kicking up, arms flailing wide, he fell backwards onto his behind with the barest of dignity. Caught by surprise, George blinked as the pain beading along the base of his spine intensified.

He didn't hear the black-haired girl approach him from the side, nor did he notice the blast of gunfire tearing into his side. In that instant, with half of his ribcage an exploding mess of bones and organs, George had not enough the awareness to notice what was happening to him. All he could tell was that he had fallen and now an immense pain had consumed him – and then he was gone.

By leftover momentum, what was left of his body rolled over to the side. Its surface dented from being crushed underneath a heel, Bonnie's assigned flashlight rocked slightly.

* * *

The girl was dead. The boy was dead. All was taken care of. By the look of things, the girl had bled to death from her leg wound, but the boy was her kill. By all means, it was a good one too, certainly one that would befit the winner of this Battle Royale. But there was still work to be done.

Slamming a fresh clip into her Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle, the killer got to work.


	14. Hour 9: 43 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 9**

**43 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

Gail Arquette, a.k.a. Girl #10, was glad the sky was beginning to light up. The overhead clouds still obscured most of the sunlight, but here and there a few rays penetrated the thick layer. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get by. Any light was better than the utter darkness that had been the first several hours of the game, when everything was still clad in darkness of unknown depths. More than anything else, it was the dark that had gotten to her. Not being able to see what was coming to get her... that was worse than any of the monsters the game would create. Letting her imaginations run wild, Gail even reckoned that even if it was her absolutely best friend Brooke Hilton, a.k.a. Girl #22, with a heavily tainted ax coming to get her, she would much rather see it coming.

Not that there was any slight chance of seeing Brooke, though. Early in the game, just minutes after she had run off from her encounter with Rodney O'Neal, a.k.a. Boy #19, with an actual weapon, Gail had expended all but two of her allotted text messages trying to get through to Brooke. The phone said the messages had been sent, and she had no reason to doubt that, but all the same she had never gotten a reply back. _And Brooke wouldn't just ignore you, would she? There must've been some problem with the network. Damn those substandard providers._

But eventually, Gail had to concede that perhaps, just perhaps, Brooke was not ready or willing to meet up with her. That revelation had come just after six o'clock, after she had spent several hours worrying about the possibility that a madman might've killed Brooke. _But no, she just doesn't want you around for some reason. You think she's playing the game? No way, can't be, it's Brooke Hilton we're talking about, come on. Get real._

Putting the possibility of rejection in the dusty little box at the back of her mind, Gail instead settled for solitude. It was unnerving in the beginning, but after a while of wandering through the fairgrounds she thought she might be able to... well, she would never get used to this. But being on her own wasn't as bad as she had initially thought._ Loneliness or solitude though? You know that's all just the same._

The bat had helped. The cricket bat was something that Rodney had given her at the end of their encounter, and it was the only weapon at her disposal. Without it she would've been defenseless, but the cricket bat... ineffective in her hands as it might be, it was still better than nothing.

The cell phone also helped. Programmed with the number of every contestant's number in the game, it was something she could use to call out to anybody who would listen. Brooke seemed like the viable choice early on, but she hadn't answered. Nadine, possibly the only person from swim team who was willing to talk to her, was already dead, a fact that shook her greatly. She couldn't even reach out to daddy or her au pair Rosalinda; the only response she got was a pre-recorded message from the government applauding her efforts but telling her in no uncertain terms that a second attempt would cause her collar to detonate.

And so Gail, without any idea of what to do or where to go, had resorted to dodging from attraction to attraction, food stall to food stall, never stopping for more than five minutes except to check whether the coast was clear. And so far it had been clear, with nobody else to see her. _Loneliness, or solitude, what's the difference anyway?_

But after seven hours of doing the same thing, it got tiring. This was no sightseeing trip, and she wasn't here to enjoy the attractions or the scenery. That made it unbearable to be constantly on her feet. She needed to rest. She needed a massage. Maybe some aromatherapy, a spa treatment to follow, then a long, luxurious nap in her room back at her manse.

What she didn't need was the constant paranoia that somebody could be following her with a gun concealed in their palm.

She had her own weapon concealed, though. It wasn't that cricket bat Rodney had given her; as nice of a gesture it had been, she couldn't do much with it. _What're you gonna do, conk somebody over the head with it? Get real._

No, what she had was her cell phone. She had taken the time to type out a message, a plea for help, saying, 'i'm in deep trouble, at zone f5, come and help me plz!' It seemed like a futile gesture, and there was no guarantee if anybody received it, they would be around to help her. _Come on, if Brooke's found a safe place to hide and she's ignoring you, what makes you think she'll risk it to come pull your ass out of trouble? Just... get real._

But it was better than not having a safety net to fall back on. She had the message fully typed out and ready to send, just a finger's click away... but she couldn't really decide who to ask help from if things really got to the point where she needed rescue. _Brooke? No, she had already rejected you, three times in fact. Three times she ignored your messages, what's to say this time won't be the same? No, Brooke's out, you're on your own now. What about Rodney? He was nice to you, he'll help, right? But he told you to hide. He told you to stay out of trouble, would he delve into trouble to get you out of it? Get real, of course he won't. This game is every man for himself, every girl for herself. So who? Nadine's dead, Brooke's ignoring you, Rodney probably won't, and everybody else is either a jerk or a bitch. Nobody you can trust..._

In the end she had decided on Brooke. As much as she had ignored her previous messages, Gail found it hard to believe that Brooke could completely ignore an urgent plea. They were best friends through and through, practically twin sisters... right?

Well, there wasn't the time to dwell on that now. With all that done with, it was back to running and hiding and getting out of trouble. Tiring as it was, it kept her ass alive and running, and that was preferable to engaging anybody in a fight. In a fight, she would surely lose. And if she lost, she would surely be killed. No questions about that, there were dozens of people out there who would not hesitate to end her life. Aside from the opportunists and the people genuinely playing the game – she knew that a handful of these emerged in every game – there were people who were jealous of her family's fortunes, people who simply hated her for her loner tendencies, people who made it their mission to make life hell for those of her social level...

Maybe running around wasn't such a good idea. Sooner or later, she was bound to run into one of those people who wanted her dead. Her mind instantly came up with a dozen possibilities. Chet, Jessica, Shaina, Helen, Karen, Lee (_oh wait, he's dead now_), Jeremy, Daphne... it seemed everybody could be out to get her. Maybe even Brooke.

_No, there's no way, absolutely not Brooke. She won't sink so low... she can't possibly be out to kill you. She can't possibly be out to kill anybody. She's... she's Brooke. She helped you, remember? When nobody else would lend a hand? She was the one who saw past your fortune and your façade and everything else. She's Brooke Hilton... not a serial killer. There's no way she'll ever do something like this. Get real._

Then again, who was she to say for certain what was going on in Brooke's mind? As close as they had been, Brooke had always been somewhat on the distant end. She kept her thoughts to herself. Who was she to say this game wouldn't expose her for what she really was? She could be harboring psychopathic tendencies like those serial killers they learned about in Program Training. There was Aileen Wuornos from Florida, the woman who shot seven men while working as a prostitute. Jane Toppan, who poisoned thirty-one people, including her foster sister, to satisfy her perverse thrill. Belle Gunness, who killed more than forty people over two decades to acquire their life insurance benefits.

Going over the facts she's been forced to recite for the survival program her daddy had enrolled her in (_for all the good it will do_), she realized how little she truly knew. There were people who paid attention to the instructors detail how exactly to operate a Luger pistol, and then there were those like her who spent the whole time texting. _Not a good sign, definitely not a good sign._

Then again, she realized she did remember a few basics. Never team up, that rule was probably the highest one on the list. And for the obvious reasons, even. Which meant it was probably a good thing that Brooke didn't respond to her message. But try as she might, Gail couldn't get herself to think like that. _Never team up? That means pretending your friends aren't your friends. That means pretending they're your enemies. Isn't that what Battle Royale is about though? But come on, you can't kill. Get real._

The constant thoughts of death and betrayal on her mind weren't doing the girl any good. Having been running around for nine consecutive hours, the girl was beyond exhausted. She had thrown up twice already, and had nearly slid into a mud pit at one point. The only thing that still kept her going was sheer willpower, but even that was nearly completely gone. She could feel the onset of fatigue creeping up, not only in her body but in her mind as well. Sleep, she needed to sleep soon. A long, luxurious nap on a velvet couch if possible.

With a sigh, she turned her mind away. No sleep, not until she found safety at least, though she had a nagging idea safety would never come.

She was ambling down a rather destitute strip mall, with only several big-name franchise stores that had been redecorated in a mom-and-pop flair. Looking at her own reflection in the plate glass window of a retail apparel store (incidentally where the late Clara Bellucci, a.k.a. Girl #11, had been hiding eight hours ago), Gail could see how terrible she looked. Her chestnut brown hair was a lump of greasy, misshapen mess slopped on her head, like a dead and decaying animal in her hair. The fabric of her dress was torn at places, her face scratched, one knee skinned bloody. She was a mess. Her father would probably disown her if he ever saw her looking like his around the house, and Rosalinda would've been horrified.

It suddenly occurred to her that she wouldn't seeing anybody any more. No more daddy, no more Rosalinda, no more Ellie at the Fruit Company, no more Mr. Bernstein, and the way things are going probably no more Rodney Ellis and no more Brooke Hilton either. _No more friends, no more mean girls, nobody else here with you, girl... nothing but the game._

The revelation seemed to overtake the girl, and against herself she fell forward to her knees. The cricket bat slipped out of her hand, clattering rather noisily on the brick-paved road. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry out loud to the heavens and plead for somebody to just take her away from this whole madness, but at the same time she knew not to do it. She knew it would be suicide for certain, that somebody would come over and get rid of the pathetic mess of a girl.

Still, Gail wept with her hands pressed to her face. Her sobs were stifled in an attempt to keep them quiet enough to keep away any unwanted attention. She felt like a rag doll, screaming and bawling at the bottom of an enormous toy chest, banging her stitched hands against the sides to get somebody to find her. It was a silly thought, and it wasn't one that comforted her at all, but for some reason it wouldn't leave her mind. As she cried her eyes out, Gail noticed nothing of the girl creeping up from behind.

By the time she was ready to get up and start moving again, Regina Crosby, a.k.a. Girl #7, already had her ice ax out.

* * *

Sophie Davies, a.k.a. Girl #12, was no bearer of exceptional fortune. In point of fact, considering what she had been through in the past nine hours of the game, the opposite was quite possibly true. She had sought shelter, a safe place where by all rights nobody should find her. The House of Mirrors. The jovial sign proclaimed it as an impossible-to-navigate maze, though in reality it was little more than a mirrored passage with a handful of branched paths here and there, with a few interconnected rooms thrown in for good measure. Nothing special, certainly nothing that could have distracted her attackers long enough to allow her safe escape, but by some miracle she had escaped Caleb Kennedy.

Yes, she had escaped. She had escaped from who was probably one of the strongest (though many would say far from the most cunning) opponents in this game. And maybe, just maybe, with this extra bit of luck to propel her, she could...

...survive? Perhaps, perhaps not. More likely than not _not_, but then again she wasn't supposed to be burdened down by her negative thoughts. That's what the therapists all told her, that her self esteem issues and her imminent sense of failure was what kept her in her shell for so long. But what do they know? For all the psyche exploration they can do, none of them ever got close to exposing her innermost thoughts.

Holding herself tight in her arms, Sophie wandered around the fairgrounds. She was getting close to one of the exits after hours of aimless walking, and she figured if she could make it outside, maybe she could find one of those woodland cabins marked out on the maps. Maybe there would be more supplies inside, food and water, spare change of clothes, maybe even a weapon? She needed all of those.

"What now?" she muttered to herself, hoping nobody would hear her. "What to do, where to go?"

She had no pack. She had no supplies. She had no destination. All she had was a minuscule part of her mind, a part that she didn't even recognize as a willful thought, that she absolutely could not die in this game. Dying was an irrelevant thought, too far away from her reality to even contemplate. _But not so much now, is it? You could get smoked any second. Maybe somebody, some guy with a gun, he could be on the rooftops watching you._

Lightly, she laughed to herself. It won't really happen, will it? No, can't, won't. The thought that a nearby sniper could be moments away from ending her life was simply absurd. It didn't seem so absurd when a gunshot suddenly rang out, far enough that she could tell it wasn't coming from anywhere near, but not doing anything to soothe her already plentifully frazzled nerves. Only with all her will did she manage to resist falling to bended knees. Instead, Sophie simply let all her caution to the wind and started running like hell.

Without her pack to load her down, Sophie realized she could now move a lot faster than she had when she first came into the game. Frightful as it was that she had no weapon, no food, no water, no map, and pretty much nothing but the clothes on her back, it gave her that much of an extra edge for everything else it threatened. In this game, speed was not everything, but it did play a great part. She needed all the speed she could get. She needed all the agility she could get.

Of course, given a choice she would still rather have her pack back. Pretty soon she would be starting to starve. Dehydrate. Get lost, maybe wander off the playing field and get her head blown off.

_No_, she decided in her mind, _that can't be your future. There's got to be more than that, more than leaving here as a carcass in a body bag and a cooler for your detached head. You can survive, you can find hope if you look for it hard enough. There's always a chance, there's always something to look forward to. Not dying here, no, won't take that for an answer. Whatever you do, sooner or later a chance will come. Just stay low, keep out of trouble, pick up a few things here and there and who's to say the guy with the gun won't just drop dead of a heart attack right in front of you?_

Considering the odds, Sophie's hopes were not completely in vain. The gunshot she had heard earlier had been fired from the pistol of one Marla Thompson, a.k.a. Girl #18, currently wielded by one Nicholas Dillon, a.k.a. Boy #5 until he deemed her stable enough to be armed again. The conditions of the game had placed Nicholas under a considerable amount of stress, and with his inborn heart defect threatening as ever, it was a miracle that he hadn't dropped dead of a heart attack yet. What did happen was that he had whirled around and fired off a quick shot in (what he thought as) self-defense when he felt a presence behind him. In reality it was little more than a small flock of birds that had scattered in an instant.

Still, that did not affect Sophie Davies at all. It didn't help her, nor did it hurt her chances, but not knowing anything that was going on only made her feel all the more paranoid. More and more she was wishing somebody could be around. Not just anybody, but a friend. Her friends wouldn't harm her, she knew that much for sure. Bonnie and Alicia, Justin, Demelza, Dina and Cindy, Christian, Alyssa, they were nice people who wouldn't do her any harm, right?

None of them were here though. Four were in the game, but not one had been around. Sophie thought that even if she had run into them, she probably would've eluded contact. _Too much at risk here. Caleb Kennedy, he came and attacked you, almost killed you but only got your pack. Your friends... they'll be in danger too if they stick around you._

Thinking of her friends did no good. Thinking of the past, of all the fun times they had together, all the times Dina and Cindy tried to get her to go shoplifting together, the times Christian could _almost-perhaps-maybe-possibly_ flirting with her, the times Bonnie sneaked in sheet music of prohibited music into choir practice (the Boss and the Lady!) and how much fun they had singing karaoke, even if the only songs available to them were teen pop... none of it did any good. It only made things worse. It brought tears, it brought despair, it brought a damning certainty that things would never change for the better and her only option was to die.

_Oh god. Please, anything but that._

Wiping the tears away with her sleeves, Sophie kept running. Despite the pessimism that haunted her every step, there was still a tiniest spark of survival instinct within the girl. As she carefully made her way around the fairgrounds, what seemed to be the smell of roasting meat caught her attention. Stopping in her tracks, Sophie dropped all her guard and breathed in deeply. It wasn't her imagination. The faintly sweet, bristling aroma of roast pork. It was enough to make her mouth water. _Meat, and potatoes. And gravy..._

"That'd be great, a bite to eat," she tried to say, only to realize how strange her voice sounded. It wasn't words, it was a croak. _Losing your voice, isn't that just great? The choir director won't be pleased with this turn of events._

Against herself, Sophie started following the scent. It led her into a fast-food restaurant. In a state of clearer mind, she would have seen plenty of warning signs. But having been pelted by hunger, thirst, and constant fear endlessly for several hours, and adding the fact that she had been a pampered girl who had practically nothing to worry over at home, she discerned nothing. She stepped over the shattered glass like a mindless slave. She took no notice of the bullets embedded in the walls. She didn't even see the blood stains on the far wall.

Ambling to the kitchen at the back of the Burger Tank, Sophie found no food. She found no respite from the terrorizing reminder that was Battle Royale.

What she found, as she began screaming in earnest, was her voice.

* * *

"Don't hurt me!" Regina screamed as Gail whipped around, tears staining her cheeks but in stark alert as she jabbed a paddle-stick object at her. It poked uncomfortably at her left breast, and while it didn't hurt long enough to linger, it did make her lose her balance. She staggered, then fell on her side, arms whipping out dramatically; the ice ax that she had concealed in her hand flung out at Gail. It whirled over her shoulder, lodging in the plate glass window of the apparel store behind her.

On instinct, Gail raised her weapon overhead and prepared to bludgeon the girl before her. Though not particularly violent by nature, she had more than enough reasons to take out Regina. Self protection was high on the list, but what frightened Gail most of all was how Regina had crept up without her noticing at all. If she hadn't finally decided to mop up the tears and pick her cricket bat up, she had little doubt that Regina's ice ax would be buried several inches in her brain stem. _Holy shit, shouldn't have let your guard down like that. Could've been deadly._

"What do you want?" Gail asked with affected bravery. The question was pointless, but with Regina stunned and defenseless, she felt she could afford to ask. No reason to take her answer for granted, but it wouldn't hurt to ask first and run later.

"No," Regina said as she twisted away, trying to get back on her feet. "Please, no!"

"Don't try anything," Gail said as she jammed the cricket bat into the other girl's chest, pushing her back down. "I swear to heavens above, don't try anything or I will... I will hurt you. I swear, I swear to god, I will beat your pretty face until it's denting inwards if you try anything, so sit the fuck back down, _capiche_?"

Regina said nothing, which she took as sullen affirmation. Whirling around her cricket bat and resting it on her shoulder, Gail asked with strength she wasn't sure she could manage, "Now, you tell me, were you trying to kill me? Is that it? You're trying to kill me?"

"No, please, I wasn't trying to do anything, you have to believe me!" Regina cried tearfully. "I only wanted to see if you were okay, if, if you were anybody I could – I could trust. My friends took off, they left me alone... I don't know what to do!"

The comment struck a chord in Gail's heart chambers. Remembering how Brooke had taken off when released from the rollercoaster with nary a glance back, how she had repeatedly ignored her text messages for help... It made her feel so terribly insecure, the way she had always felt before Brooke came along. _But that was then, this is now._

With great determination, Gail pointed to the side with her cricket bat and said in as steady a voice as she could muster, "Get the fuck out of here. Before I do anything to hurt you. Because I will, believe me, if you don't leave me the fuck alone I will cut you."

"Jesus!" Regina whimpered as she scrambled to her feet.

"Get out of here!"

"Jesus, what are you?" Regina practically wailed. "Some kind of psycho bitch? I just needed somebody to be with, I don't even mean any harm?"

"I said, get out of here!"

It was plain that Gail was beginning to lose her assertion. With the initial shock subsided amidst fear and instinctual caution, she was losing her courage. She was losing that gut feeling of staying alone and alive. It felt like with each passing second, with each plead Regina splayed out, she was losing more and more of her determination. Maybe she shouldn't banish Regina like this. Maybe she should have continued searching for Brooke with aid of an ally. Maybe it would be much easier to stay alive, with somebody around to watch her back and help her out in spots of trouble.

"Oh god," Gail said with barely concealed disgust as Regina stared at her with wide, brimming eyes. "You really, really don't want to just fuck off, do you?"

"I need a friend," Regina replied simply, dabbing the corners of her eyes with the tips of her fingers.

"Yeah, we all do," Gail replied somewhat wistfully, but then immediately turned her attention back to the situation at hand.

"Look," she said with exasperation, "I'll keep you around on one condition, take it or leave it. You're gonna have to surrender everything you have, your weapon, food, water, maps and everything, and I mean everything that you have you're gonna have to give it to me. I don't want any funny business. I'm still not sure you don't want to kill me, so until I find reason to trust you, you'd better hand everything over."

She didn't expect Regina to take the offer. It was unreasonable, especially in a Battle Royale. To take everything somebody had was akin to stripping them bare and trapping them in a cage with forty-odd particularly ferocious bears. If she had any bad intentions, it would be indirect murder plain and simple. If Regina opted to play by her rules... well, she wouldn't stand much of a chance either way. And who was to say Gail wouldn't just ditch her later on, leaving her with no weapon and nothing to survive on? It was a highly likely possibility (if you didn't know Gail very well), and as somebody who had always been on the outside ring of things, Gail didn't expect Regina to fully place her trust in her like that.

"Please, okay, I'll do it, anything," Regina said in earnest, as she practically tore open the zipper of her pack. "Here, my food and water, I'll let you ration it and all, and my maps, and, and my assigned weapon, it's there, it's-"

Gail turned around to yank out the ice ax from where it had lodged in the display window. Nothing. Just a punctured hole in the glass.

With a hair-tingling sense of something gone awry, she whipped around – just in time for Regina to slam her ice ax down. The spike would have impaled her head if she hadn't moved at the last second, instead it angled down the side of her neck with a painful crack. With six inches of steel buried in the junction of her neck and her shoulder, Gail couldn't even find the air to shriek. It was all red, everything, painted red with the arterial blood that spurted out of her neck and blurring her vision. She couldn't move to get away. She couldn't even thrash out from the fading pain. Everything below the neck felt paralyzed.

For a few moments more, Gail lurched around on her feet. The world was fading away, then coming back in slow cycles. The sidewalk, the bushes and trees, the comical garbage cans disguised as giant mouth-gaping frogs, everything looked slightly distorted. The colors slowly draining out of everything, leaving her in a monochrome world, then come back slowly. For the few moments that it looked like everything would forever be bleached, she realized she missed the colors so very dearly.

The realization that she had fallen over came seconds later, but to Gail it might as well be an eternity. The sky was no longer lit, instead replaced by bright spots of lights, pulsing, flaring. _Is this what dying feels like? Doesn't hurt too bad...

* * *

_

What she saw, walking into the food preparation area of the fast food restaurant, was the most surreal yet horrible thing she had ever seen. An outsider would not have been as surprised, especially considering what Boy #9 had gone through particularly in the past three hours. But as somebody who had time and again been a friend, perhaps even a confidante to him, Sophie would never have imagined that one day, she would walk into a Burger Tank to find Adrian Perry, a.k.a. Boy #9, sprawled lifelessly next to the heavily mutilated body of the late Clara Bellucci, a.k.a. Girl #11. What looked like vomit stained the front of both bodies.

At that point, screaming her head off was among the more dignified responses she could muster, really.

Her raw instinct screamed at her to run away from this terrible sight, but something more important kept her grounded. Survival. Without her supplies, she would not last long out there. Right now Adrian was unconscious, dead, asleep, whatever it was. She could just grab his pack. Just six, maybe seven quick steps, hook her fingers around the straps, then hauling ass as fast as her legs would let her. It wouldn't even take a minute, and she'd regain most of her supplies and probably a nice weapon to defend herself with, considering what's been done to Clara's face. She pictured some type of caustic spray eating its way through skin and flesh. It was a horrifying thought, but at the same time there was a part of her that felt she would be safer with something of that caliber.

Making up her mind, Sophie stifled the fear and crept over to where the two bodies lay. The floor was slippery with a scum layer of spilled oil and blood, but she was determined enough to keep her footing. Quick and quiet, she danced over and pulled up the pack next to Adrian. Its strap was caught in his arm, but a quick pull freed it. The bottom of it was greasy from whatever crap was on the kitchen floor, but that couldn't be helped.

Looking around, she couldn't find Clara's pack. Somebody must have taken it before Adrian took care of her, the way Caleb had taken her own pack, but at least she did get Adrian's pack out of it. Ruffling through the contents of it, she could see food and water, a map so folded and crumpled it resembled an origami something, a compass and a cardboard box marked ammunition. But no gun. No pepperspray. No other weapon whatsoever. _It's not in here? But everybody has a weapon, that's what the lady said, unless the only thing he's got is ammo, but what about-_

The sensation of a clammy hand gripping her calf was not a comfortable one, much less welcomed.

Instinctively, her leg rose to kick off whatever elfish creature was tangling at her feet, while her upper body twisted to run. The greased floor finally got the best of her balance as she skidded on one foot, then fell unceremoniously against the sink. With a crack, her forehead exploded with blood, streaming down into her eyes.

Partially blinded, Sophie rubbed desperately at her eyes to get the blood out of them. She had to at least see what was going on. Even it would only put her in unimaginable terror before her life ended, she still wanted to know what was happening.

Through her slightly reddened vision, she caught sight of Adrian, white-faced and gauntly, his thick-rimmed glasses cracked and hanging on one ear, droplets of vomit shimmering in his hair, with one hand clamped around her foot. On pure instinct she lashed out with a kick again, not even recognizing that the boy whose nose shattered beneath her heel was somebody she had labored over a science project with several months ago. Still he did not let go, and Sophie saw no choice but to twist out of his grip. With oil, blood, and vomit everywhere, she slipped out of his grip like a lubricated Chinese finger trap.

_He was dead, he wasn't moving, he's supposed to be dead!_ A part of her mind screamed, but the more pragmatic thought was not to reason how the previously lifeless boy had resurrected, but _how do you get yourself out of this?_

Grabbing the nearest thing she could get her hands on – a heavy, metal box with a red cross stenciled in aerosol – she made to swing it at Adrian's head. It was too far away to connect, but the clasp exploded open and sent its contents flying. Bandages unrolled, scissors spun out like ninja weaponry, and emptied medication boxes tumbled out. She swung the metal box again, this time quite sure it connected with the side of Adrian's head.

The blood from the cut on her forehead was beginning to stream in her eyes again. Though not particularly enraged, Sophie saw red.

* * *

Adrian Perry was quite certain this was not the way he intended to go. None of this was congruent with what he intended his future to be in the first place, but in some weird way he could deal with it. He could deal with never enjoying a successful life as a skillful surgeon, marrying an attractive girl who read novels for leisure, having children and grandchildren and dying in his sleep at the age of one hundred. He could even handle dying and drifting into a non-existent afterworld where he might or might not be punished for his sins, as long as it was on his own terms. Suicide, that was the way he wanted to go. Not being bludgeoned by a psychotic redhead who at some point used to be a friend.

Things would be much simpler if he had the guts to use the gun he had been assigned with. The manual spelled out clearly how to load it, how to get the safety and everything else out of the way. All it would take was to point the muzzle at his temple and pull the trigger. But he couldn't. Every time he tried to force his finger down, it refused to relent.

Get this, he didn't even have the bravery to be a cowardly suicide.

And so he had sought out an alternate mean. He was looking for an automobile at first, hoping to go out by carbon monoxide poisoning. Then he figured overdose might not be too bad a way to go if he didn't mind the massive organ damage (_come on, not like I'll be giving up those organs for transplants_), and it just so happened that the jackass and his slut of a girlfriend that he came across had with them a first aid kit. It was like everything suddenly clicked into place. Everything made sense, in a way.

What was done was done, and though he did lose his gun in the process, it didn't look like he would ever need it again. Until now, when the crazy bitch jumped him even as he lay dying. Was it really that much to ask for, to find someplace where nobody would bother him as he lay dying slowly? It almost didn't matter that the sight of Clara's body had prompted him to vomit up everything he had swallowed in the past twenty-four hours. He was certain dying would be a breeze compared to anything else he had to go through if he decided he had a fighting chance out there.

And as his thoughts were starting to connect again, as his consciousness returned, he saw that girl take his pack. It shouldn't have mattered; it wasn't as though he had any use for it, but in his semi-befuddled state of mind he reached out to stop her. Clasped a hand around her leg, tried to get her to return what was rightfully his. That fucking thieving bitch, she deserves every bit of the Malebolge if Dante's account was anything to go by!

But she had struck back, first with her foot and then with the first aid kit. And with each little bit of his skull that she was cracking, Adrian could feel the remnants of his sanity slipping away. And that was the one thing he couldn't abide. His sanity, his intellect, his mind was all he had left. He never had a perfect body, never had a perfect soul. It was his _mind_ that he was proud of, and now she's trying to take that away too? Trying to turn him into one of those mental patients, arms strapped around themselves as they screamed to a padded wall?

How fucking dare she.

No longer bothering to keep his sensibilities in check, Adrian threw himself at the girl. There was no more playing Mr. Nice now, it was down to pure, dirty, eye-clawing, hair-pulling fighting. Though the overdose of pills had severely messed up his metabolism, for some reason he could still find the stamina to tackle Sophie to the floor. She screamed, trying to block his attack with that metal box, but he swiped that away with a clenched fist. The box bounced off on the tiled floor, clanging and banging.

Neither were shrieking, both of them having lost the breath to scream long before that point. Breathing in hitched gasps, Sophie slapped her hands wildly at the attacking boy. Adrian did the same, with considerably greater effect as he kept his hands balled in fists. With neither side at a particular advantage or in possession of a weapon of any caliber, they were at a stalemate. To an outsider it would've been comical, but with both contestants fearing their lives were on the edge, neither saw much of the humor in the situation.

Thinking quickly, Adrian reached out and grabbed Sophie by a handful of her long, red hair. Bawling in pain, Sophie abandoned the futile slapping and started tearing tattoos into his cheeks with her nails. Blinded to the pain, Adrian yanked her toward him and jammed his fingers into her nose, all the way to the second knuckles. At this, Sophie finally found the initiative to emit a nasal-sounding cry. With her nose wrecked and starting to bleed, she looked unbelievingly at her former friend, then gnawed down hard on the rest of his fingers in front of her face. In pain, Adrian jerked his hand back, pulling his fingers out of Sophie's nose with an audible pop.

"Thun odv a bidth!" Sophie cried, clutching her nose in horrified shock.

The pack that she took from Adrian had split and spilled while they were fighting, and on instinct she snatched up the pencil torch. Not nearly enough to be a bludgeon, but that didn't stop her from cracking it down hard on the back of Adrian's skull. With each consecutive strike, the torch flashed on and off, giving the entire kitchen a strange strobe-light effect. Holding back the urge to vomit until she could taste bitter liquid at the back of her throat, Sophie shoved off Adrian and pushed herself backwards. Her jeans-clad bottom glided on the accumulated scum on the floor tiles, managing barely a feet before she had to use her hands to crawl away. Her fingers teased over something tiny and metal, and she held on to it.

Adrian found himself wishing he had the strength to pull the trigger of the gun against his temple in the very first place, hours before he had even happened upon Tommy and Karen. It would have spared him so much trouble. Instead, now he had the questionable privilege to fight off Sophie Davies, who in any other situation would be one of his best friends from school. For a second he paused to consider what he was doing here, but then Sophie started backing away and he didn't see Sophie, he saw that bitch who tried to run off with his pack. The bitch who thought she could leave him here to die.

With hot tears in his eyes, Adrian lost the last connection with reality he had. Like a rabid hound, he leapt at her. Well, _leapt_ was too strong a term; in his current condition the most Adrian could do was a weak lunge with his hands outstretched. Though he could not have done Sophie any terrible damage, she nevertheless reacted in self defense, forcefully stabbing him in the thigh with whatever metal object she had grabbed up.

"Jedudth chridth, whad the fudck!" she shrieked nasally, jumping back on her feet, lifting with her the pack that she had scavenged from Adrian.

Adrian could not do the same. Though he had no idea what precisely had happened, he could feel what remained of his strength transpire away. He was only vaguely aware he had been hurt, well, on top of the massive organ damage he was probably suffering from. He thought Sophie might have found a knife and cut him a little in the side, or something. He didn't think it was anything serious, probably he could just banish that bitch and get back to dying in peace.

Sophie saw differently. The metal object she had snatched up and thrust out in self defense was a pair of surgical forceps that had fallen from the first aid kit when she first tried to strike Adrian away. Jammed in the flesh of his inner thigh, punched through the blood-soaked denim of his jeans, the handles protruded from where Sophie had buried it in his leg. Though she was no expert in human anatomy, the arterial blood pumping out in bright red spurts was enough to confirm that she had indeed struck his femoral artery.

She didn't bother to stay for the aftermath. This was not of her doing, she wouldn't have to do something this drastic if Adrian had just let her be. All she wanted was to survive, and she needed that pack. He had gone crazy, he attacked and probably killed Clara and then tried to attack her. Self defense was perfectly justifiable, and no way in hell was this any of her responsibility. No, no, definitely, absolutely not. No use staying behind to tend to him, just get out of the place while she still can.

Seizing the water bottles, pen, map, compass, loose rolls of bandages, anything that she could get her hands on, and stuffing them into the tattered fabric that was Adrian's pack, Sophie paid the dying boy little attention. Within two minutes, she had most of the stuff she needed and was ready to sprint out.

Weak from the symptoms of massive blood loss, Adrian tried to lift an arm. He couldn't. The most he could do was raise his chin off his vomit-speckled chest and look up at the redheaded girl who at one point had been a valuable partner in that nutritional science project they shared. He might have been looking for sympathy, or a notion that things would be... certainly not alright, but at least the way they were supposed to go. Any indication that his death would be acknowledged...

His last sight being the surveillance camera zooming in to capture every last throe of his death, he couldn't really say he found it.

* * *

Regina was fairly certain the rich bitch was dead. Her eyes were glazed over and lifeless, her body not even contorting with any sort of deathbed convulsions. By all rights, she had to be dead and bled out. But all the same, just to be on the safe side and for that additional edge in the competition, she figured she could go the extra mile. It couldn't be hurtful in any way, in fact if she did things right she would be considered one of the greater contestants in the game from this point onward.

Mutilation, that was what she had to do. In a Battle Royale, killing wasn't enough. Murder wasn't enough to win the game, not if she wanted the full applause and approval of the audience. She had to be ruthless, she had to be indomitable, but above all she had to be _creative_. Killing simply wasn't enough, but dismantling her victims' internal organs could win her that much more support. This was no popularity contest, but it was still important to retain public support. Nobody would want a winner who got by with only one final kill. Nobody wanted a frontrunner who only had gunshots in her disposal.

The ice ax she had been assigned with was a good start. None of the frontrunners of the previous eight seasons had an ice ax as their iconic weapon. Julie Winnfield, recent winner of season eight, had a tomahawk and her ever trusty Glock 17 pistol. Duke Merrill of season six had a crossbow. Janet Spahn and Melissa Parnell, the deadly duo of season two who ultimately succumbed at fourth and fifth place, had a combination of a flare gun and a boning knife. Not to mention, nearly every season had a girl who wielded some variant of a scythe. But the ice ax, that was new. The closest thing anybody in the history of Battle Royale had ever gotten their hands on was that Polly girl from season four, who had her face corroded by a splash of battery acid and ended up dead in a ditch with her pickax unused.

But simply having an iconic weapon wasn't enough. If she wanted to win with the good graces of the judge panels out there, she had to do so with _style_.

First, to start with the rich bitch. She would have preferred it if Gail's blonde friend was there as well, but a single kill wasn't too shabby. That was the simple part, killing the girl. What wasn't quite as simple was to decide how to proceed with the _embellishment_. There was the basic mutilation technique, slitting open the abdomen and allowing the entrails to spill out. Great effect, greater still if the body was suspended somehow. But she wanted something with more _fire_, more _spark_, more than just a cut that could have been sustained in battle anyway.

Well, no use agonizing over which technique to adopt. She had to get started somehow.

Extracting the ice ax from Gail's shoulder with all the grace of a butcher lifting a meat cleaver from a side of ribs, she slammed the weapon down again, this time puncturing her collarbone roughly two inches from where she had originally struck. Dragging the weapon downwards with all her might, she forced the spike through flesh and bone until there was a definite crunch. A small jet of blood shot out at her face, nearly getting into her eye. _Damn, that could've been infectious. This bitch's been such a slut... wouldn't be surprised if she's stewing with enough STDs to poison a small town._

Wiping the blood off the side of her face, Regina proceeded with more precision. Withdrawing the ice ax, she slammed it into Gail's gut with little compunction, tearing down until her shirt and the skin underneath split down nearly to her crotch. Letting out a sadistic smile, Regina took pleasure in bringing the ice ax even lower, until it ripped entirely out of Gail's body. Knots of intestines began oozing at the slit, as though testing whether the outside environment was safe enough to expose to. Spotting the cricket bat nearby (_didn't that bitch threaten to beat your face in_), she acted on a creative impulse and jammed the bludgeon into the wound until only the handle protruded. _Slut, bet you would've liked that, wouldn't you?_

With the lower body taken care of, she moved to the anorexic bitch's face. _No definition, all bones and angles, definitely nothing attractive about her, if it weren't for her daddy's money she wouldn't ever get laid in a million lifetimes. Nothing compared to you, but that goes without saying._

Lifting her ice ax overhead, she brought it down hard, puncturing into Gail's skull with a messy spray of gore. Lifting the point out of her face, she brought the ice ax down again, then a third time, and again, again, until her face resembled a slab of Swiss cheese more than an actual person. At some point her cranium finally caved in entirely, spilling slops of what looked like mould-laden meatloaf. Still she persevered, taking out her internal anger on the body that was looking less and less like one by the second.

"Well," Regina eventually cooed with a smile that had impressed many a pageant judge, "that ought to score me enough points now, oughtn't it?"


	15. Hour 10: 41 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 10**

**41 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

Courtney Wilkes, a.k.a. Girl #9, was at the top of the world. The game was as good as hers. The powers that be had granted her exceptional fortune, endowing her with one of the most immensely powerful and efficient weapons in the game. The Russian Kalashnikov, known to most as the AK-47 assault rifle, the most inexpensively and prevalently produced rifle in the world. Powerful enough that she could blast away any opposition in a slew of blood and bone with incredibly little effort on her part. Just one flex of the finger, one tug of the trigger and the resultant volley of gunfire would take care of the rest. Simple enough that even a girl like her could easily sweep the game with it.

Unlike many of the other contestants, doubt had never been on Courtney's mind since the game first began. From the moment she heard the previous winner detail what they were going to have to do in the next three days, she had no reservations whatsoever about what she had to do. Her survival would have to come at the cost of forty-nine others', and to put it simply Courtney valued herself above any other teenager. It was a selfish thought, and she had no trouble acknowledging that. Even if the Battle Royale hadn't come along, nobody would have expected her to have a bright future.

Born to a former pornographic actress turned single mother, Courtney would never have fitted into any criteria of rich, popular, or successful. Though not unbeautiful, with her heritage came a reputation that was pretty much as low as it could get right from the beginning of her social life. She had been branded as an outcast and a slut by those higher on the hierarchy of high school status (chiefly Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, and her ever-varying entourage), and it was hardly surprising that she had never made any true friend to speak of. The closest to a friendly acquaintance she ever made was perhaps Deborah La Rue, a.k.a. Girl #3, who had on occasion cross paths with her as a practiced biker. With the one exception, Courtney could honestly and truthfully say she valued nobody else that was in the game with her. This didn't even have to be a matter of life and death; if murdering anybody who had ever co-existed with her on the high school grapevine had zero repercussion and could advance her on whatever agenda she thought mattered, she would have done so in a heartbeat.

And just as well, the Battle Royale was this exact situation. It was hardly surprising that Courtney had found herself ready to charge through the game, guns a-blazing. And so she had proceeded with her first two kills, one Girl #6 and one Boy #10, with not an iota of remorse or compunction.

What she had in spades was conviction. She had to win this game, of that she had no uncertainties whatsoever. There was no way she would let anybody rip her survival out of her hands, not even Deborah. She would only allow for one outcome, and that was her ultimate victory at whatever cost. No matter who else had to die, she had to step out of this alive. No alternative was acceptable.

But she held no illusions that it would be easy. Victory would be certain, that she had no reason to doubt, but it would definitely come at the cost of a few scars. That was why she had to be cautious. Always stay on the safe side of things. With her assault rifle in hand, all she had to do was make sure she was far away enough from anybody else that nobody could do anything before her bullets met their mark. _Then again, there are bound to be other people with guns. Keep moving, don't let anybody hit you with a lucky potshot._

Then again, she wouldn't be helpless in close range. She knew while that line of thinking was ideal, it was not to be. There were bound to be close encounters sooner or later, people who crept past her boundaries of personal space. The AK-47 assault rifle made a rather decent melee weapon, nimble enough to be swung from its stock, but what was more apposite were the machete and police baton she had gained from her first two victims. That vapid blonde girl, and one of the egotistical jocks around, she couldn't be bothered to tell who it really was. Taking down those two had not only scored her the first two casualties to her name, but also two decent close range weapons. The machete was the better of the two, so sleek and deadly sharp that it could crunch through flesh and bone with little effort. The baton wasn't bad either, but in comparison Courtney found the machete to be a greater and more versatile weapon. Of course, both were nothing compared to the assault rifle.

Merely nine hours after the game had started, Courtney Wilkes had transformed herself into a fairly well-adapted one woman army that most other contestants would be incredibly unwilling to come near. Not that any of them had a choice, if she had anything to say about the matter.

There were a few problems to take care of first, though, before she could rightfully seize the game. Highest on the order of priority was getting herself suited up for the grand mission she was about to undertake. Taking down Bonnie and George had required little effort on her part, but eliminating the other forty-three contestants (_probably fewer than that by now, a lot of people have bound to be killed in the past... what, three, nearly four hours since the last report?_) wouldn't be as easy as that. There were able fighters out there, former athletes and delinquents who could put up more of a fight than those two did. If she wanted to leave the game without too many injuries, she would have to prime herself for that.

Striding up to the southern entrance of the amusement park, Courtney stopped just before the unsecured gate. Probably a dozen contestants had already escaped out of these gates, panicked and thinking only to get as far away from the others as possible.

She turned around. What she was looking for wouldn't be found in the park. Doubling around the decorative fountain before the entrance, she hurried in the direction of the parking lot with her assault rifle held high as a deterrent to anybody thinking to surprise her. Twice she thought she heard somebody ruffle in the bushes, but saw nothing other than wayward birds. If her rifle could be silenced, she would have fired at the bushes just to be sure, but not wanting to draw undue attention to herself, she continued on.

It took a bit of searching, but eventually she found what she was looking for wedged between a vending machine and an overturned shopping cart. It was in great condition, chrome grips, dual stainless exhaust, and by the looks of it barely above four thousand miles... pity she wouldn't get the chance to mount this beauty. Lifting the motorcycle helmet that hung from one side of the bike, she pushed it over her head quite firmly. No guarantees, but it'd offer her some degree of protection should any opponent go for the head.

Wrapping her denim jacket around herself, Courtney prepared to leave the parking lot in search for other prey. She had little doubt that she would find them, or they would come to her... sooner or later they all would. That was the way the game worked, if any of them survived up to the last six hours they'd be herded to the beach zone. Nobody would be a match for her...

Courtney turned around, and was quite surprised to find herself looking into the barrel of a Franchi SPAS-12 combat shotgun.

"Miss me?" Deborah La Rue said with a distorted smile.

Not one to back down, Courtney whipped her assault rifle up and jabbed it squarely at the other girl's abdomen before she could react. She was fast, but not fast enough to pull the trigger before Deborah shook off the surprise. With both girls alert and highly tensed, one wrong move could cause the other to pull the trigger. Neither dared to move without the greatest of caution, and neither were willing to back off and let herself at the risk of being shot by the other.

To put it simply, it was a typical Mexican standoff.

Unwavering yet mindful of the possibility that her face could soon be receiving a transfusion of buckshot, Courtney spoke in firm, steady words, "If you think for a second I won't pull the trigger before you can, you're painfully mistaken. I have a reflex so much faster than yours that you won't even see it coming before you'll be shitting bullets."

"Oh yeah?" Deborah simply said as she stood steadfast. "How about, I don't think so?"

"And assuming by some miracle you manage to pull the trigger a split second before I open fire, do you honestly think this reinforced helmet wouldn't protect me from a shotgun blast? The most I'm looking at is a number of superficial cuts and a mild concussion, you could be looking at the grim reaper in seconds if you don't surrender."

"I don't think so," Deborah repeated.

Despite her outward assurance, Courtney was sweating inside the helmet. She had been bluffing about the protection offered, and more likely than not Deborah knew it. She had no idea whether the buckshot would simply shatter the plastic face shield and pulverize her head into bloody pulp. At this range it was probably that the visor would prove to be no protection, but she still had the advantage of wielding an AK-47 that was currently pointed at Deborah's stomach. It was a stalemate, but being in a stalemate was still better than being at a disadvantage.

Hitching her breath, Courtney searched for a weakness. Deborah was the only other contestant she might refer to with the term "friend" on a particularly generous day, but that didn't mean she wouldn't kill her in cold blood if it afforded her own survival. If there was anything that could give her that slight advantage to overturn the situation, she would grasp it without a hesitation. But the shotgun was loaded and the crossbolt safety was in the fire position. Deborah herself was as resolute as it could get, her face resembling an iron mask in its determination. It was clear to her that Deborah was a great opponent... to run into her so early on and without her perceived advantages was a definite setback she hadn't foreseen.

"If you're really as confident as you're pretending to be," Deborah said after some time, "you would have shot me the moment you saw me standing here. So cut the pretense and cut the bullshit."

"Sharp as always, I see," Courtney replied with a thin smile.

"You know me," Deborah replied, blinking as her long black hair drifted before her face, but she didn't swipe it aside. "And I think you know me well enough that you know I'd kill you if that was what it would take for me to walk away alive."

"Ditto, and given that in the past several hours I've had a hand in ending the lives of two other contestants, I hardly think you're in much of a bargaining position," Courtney replied. "But since you failed to mention any resolve in being the sole survivor of this encounter I'm assuming you're willing to settle for mutual surrender." _And that's where your mistake is, my friend._

Deborah hesitated. "If you're willing to do so without stabbing me in the back, then absolutely. But don't think for a second that you can outsmart me, because the only result you'll get from that is a mouthful of buckshot."

"Huh."

"Yeah, you know I mean it," Deborah said grimly.

"We're equals in that regard, then," Courtney said, then felt a small tremble in her heart as she sighted a blonde head protrude from the bushes lining the parking lot. It was too far away to see who it was, but at the same time having somebody around while the two of them were caught in a stalemate was hardly a good idea. She had absolutely intentions of being taken down by an opportunistic airhead who thought she could best her or Deborah, and had a feeling that Deborah would think the same. Truth be told, on some level she considered Deborah the only other person worthy of a better end than shot in the back by some backburner chick.

Besides, if Deborah had reacted to being shot from behind, she could very well be missing the upper half of her head.

"Just in case you're wondering," she spoke levelly, "there's a contestant lurking some distance behind you, and the good money says if we don't dissolve this standoff either one of us will be receiving a bullet in the spine for their troubles. I'm all for remaining in this position until either one of us chooses to end it, but be warned that I'm in the superior position with my sight on this underhanded newcomer. You're the one with your back turned, so considering your best interests I think you'll find it the best course of action to lower your firearm."

Deborah blinked, as though deliberating. Of course, she wasn't sure whether or not she was bluffing. Under the circumstances, she could not be blamed, but at the same time Courtney was starting to get increasingly irritated. They were both in legitimate danger if the girl possessed a pistol or a rifle of any caliber, Deborah more so than her, and Courtney did not enjoy being in this position. She ought to be the one to deal out the damage, not the person to stand there while some lucky bitch comes by and starts taking potshots at her. Well, if Deborah wasn't going to do a thing, she wouldn't abide it. Something _had_ to give.

She smiled and lowered her assault rifle for the slightest bit. She saw the way Deborah's eyes instinctively went to it, taking her attention off the aim of her shotgun. Acting quickly, Courtney lifted her AK-47 and slammed it against the barrel of Deborah's shotgun. The strike did not entirely knock her shotgun out of her grasp, but nevertheless her grip loosened enough. Before the other girl could fire, Courtney twisted aside and made to fire an unending stream of bullets at either girl. Deborah, the girl in the bushes, she didn't care.

It was an unbelievably risky move, and she would be as surprised as anybody else that it went off smoothly without a problem. Caught by surprise, Deborah fell on her back, barely hanging on to the stock of her shotgun and certainly in no position to fire. There was a shriek – probably the blonde girl in the bushes – and then several gunshots, none of them her own or Deborah's.

Taking one look at the downed girl, Courtney made a decision that she recognized in the back of her mind could potentially lead to her downfall. Nevertheless, she acted. Lashing out, she sent the shotgun in Deborah's grip flying end over end, then sprinted in pursuit of the girl in the bushes. She pointedly did not look back at Deborah, knowing that by the time the other girl recovered from the surprise and retrieved her shotgun, she would be safely out of firing range. _The less you have to do with her, the better.

* * *

_

Daphne Reagan, a.k.a. Girl #25, knew when things weren't going her way. It was an innate ability to discern when the tide had changed and Goliath started crushing David under his fist. That had come in handy nearly a year ago when that anti-government rally she attended got out of hand, and the riot police decided to put a stop to it by any means necessary. During her relationship with Caleb (_if it can be called that_), she knew when his temper was spiraling out of control and she knew not to push the limits. She knew when her Browning pistol was no match for the other girl's rifle, and she knew beyond a doubt that if she didn't get out of here she would be dead in a matter of seconds.

_She's got a gun, so run, Daphne, run,_ she thought nervously as she tore through the decorative bushes that lined the parking lot. The artificial foliage soon gave way to that of the natural variety, tangles of branches and wilting leaves clotted in her way. Wildly she fired back at her pursuer, but she had little hope of actually hitting her. It would be a miracle if firing blindly while on the move proved more effective than when she had been lurking in the bushes. Indeed, it wasn't; all she could do right now was run like hell and high water were after her.

It had seemed like a legitimate strategy, given what she had done to Leon Delgado, a.k.a. Boy #4 with a snipe from afar. Stay hidden, follow when she found somebody unsuspecting, and open fire when they let their guard down. By all means, it should have worked too. Those two should have been too caught up in their little standoff to see her, and she would have had an additional two kills to her name if everything went off without a problem. But it didn't, and that proved disastrous because Courtney was now after _her_.

Her pistol clicked empty. Stopping to reload was not a viable option. The only thing she could do was _run, girl, run.

* * *

_

Courtney did not give pursuit. She knew enough to recognize that giving in to her impulse to win might prove to be an ultimate downfall. _Take a look at what happened to that guy you killed, he got caught up in chasing the blonde girl and ended up with half his torso blasted off. No way I'm going after somebody who has a gun..._

Instead, she wielded her fully loaded assault rifle and sprinted through the entrance gates of the park. It was still early enough that a sizeable percentage of contestants were probably still hiding inside. If she moved quick enough before many of them decided to change locales and leave the amusement park, she could catch them unawares. Take them by surprise, do like she had done with George and Bonnie. _Worth a shot, you think? Definitely. You've never been wrong, trust yourself on this._

Moving quickly, she hurtled down the faux replication of Main Street, U.S.A., mindful of the possibility that Deborah could be coming after her.

* * *

The window was frosted with colored lead in a mosaic illustration of Jesus leading a flock of sheep downhill, but it still allowed enough visibility that Jeremy Paisley, a.k.a. Boy #15, could see Courtney run past the antique store he had been hiding in. For that he was thankful; really truly with his entire heart, he had no intentions whatsoever of meeting anybody else in the game. He was perfectly content to remain isolated in this temporary haven, secluded from all the murder and conflict that was raging on outside. Though he could not have known that Courtney was already a murderess, he nevertheless thought it best to avoid anybody. Even those he would have recognized as friends in school.

_Well... maybe with one exception_, Jeremy thought with muted hope, _but that's not gonna happen, is it?_

In the same place at the back of his mind where he stored thoughts he refused to acknowledge, Jeremy recognized that sooner or later he would die. Even if nobody would wander in, he would be dead once the sixty-six hours had passed (_only fifty-six left now_) and all zones outside from the beaches became danger zones. A series of quick beeps, then his collar would detonate and that'd be it, wouldn't it? There was simply no other way that he could have survived. Death was imminent whatever way he looked at it from.

_It doesn't have to be_, a tiny voice spoke up. Except yes, it had to be, because quite simply Jeremy could not kill. It was not that he had moral qualms with it; in point of fact he would gladly have ended the lives of most other contestants if it could be traded for his survival. No, the fact was that he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill, he couldn't hurt anybody else on his own accord, and with that toy pistol he found in his pack, it didn't look like he would ever be able to. Sure, by all rights a flare gun could be used as a rather effective weapon, but... by him? No way, not gonna happen. He couldn't aim to save his life. He probably wouldn't even be able to find it in him to pull the trigger.

So in the end he had decided safety was the main issue at hand. As long as he remained hidden, he was safe. As long as he was safe... he would be alive, right? For the time being, at least, that looked to be true. If things didn't change in the next two days, he would be secure here in his lonesome until T minus six hours.

But was this really how he wanted his eventual death to be? Alone and surrounded by the assorted crap that some geezer from a generation before his own collected over a lifetime. No, that was definitely not a favorable way to go. But it looked like the best choice he had at the moment, unless he wanted to throw himself out into that _clusterfuck_ outside. And no way, that's not gonna happen, definitely absolutely not, no sir. There were killers out there, the announcements had made that clear. Four deaths in only six hours, probably more by now. Four people were dead, and if the report could be trusted four people were killers out there. Drake, Marla, and then two other people he couldn't remember. Checking the list, he noted Lee (who was now dead) and Mallick. It was enough to know that there were dangerous people out there, people who couldn't be trusted and invited in. Hell, never in a million years would he have imagined Drake or Marla as killers, but there they were gunning down innocent people... _well, save for Lee, bastard killed Clara and probably had it coming anyway._

Stuffing the list back into his pack, he noticed the mobile phone sitting in between a water bottle and the remaining flare shots that he hadn't loaded yet. Out of habit he flipped it open. _No messages. Of course. Who'd want to spend their last moments with you anyway?_

With nothing better to do, he clicked into the contact list and began scrolling through the names, feeling that familiar _thump_ as a particular name went past. But there was no point in messaging anybody else, not when he only had five text messages to use. And certainly no point in messaging _him_. Oh no, that would be plain pointless.

In despair, he tossed the phone away. Not with too much force behind it, he wouldn't want to break the phone in case he needed it later on, but all the same he had to let out some of the pent up frustration. It was a hopeless situation. So sue him if he was trying to find some... he didn't even know what.

"Jesus, fuck, this is just, fuck, fuck, so fucked up..." he choked out, feeling close to tears as he tried to drown out everything else.

Somehow, he had a feeling everything would be better (_no way as good as it once had been but maybe at least a slight bit better?_) if he had somebody here with him. A friend, an acquaintance, as long as it was somebody he could talk to about things, it would all be fine. _As long as he doesn't try to rip your entrails out, that's a double-edged sword, isn't it? Your best friend could very well be your worst enemy right now. Or dead, she could already be dead. God knows..._

This couldn't be the way it had to end. Jeremy was determined not to let it happen, at least. It was bad enough that they were all caught up in this deathmatch. If he had to spend the rest of his life trapped voluntarily in this claustrophobic place with no hope of any other human contact... that would be hell.

Jeremy began to pace. The shop wasn't particularly spacious, but it had enough room for him to go several steps either way before having to turn or double around. While walking around, he kept his thoughts occupied on what it was that he planned to do next. The safe decision would be to remain alone in this store. If by some miracle (_or the collar tracker_) somebody found him, it wouldn't be difficult to dispatch them with his flare gun, or one of the antique crossbows or flintlock pistols stored behind locked glass in the store. This strategy would almost certainly ensure his survival until the sixty-sixth hour of the game, and after that he would be dead. At this point, Jeremy thought he could even accept that. _If you're meant to die... at least you're aware three days in advance._

But then came a different thought. So what if he had a couple dozen extra hours to live, could he really savor that if he spent those hours in fearful isolation? That didn't sound a fairly decent end to him. A small part of his mind told him that perhaps he should take his chances outside. On the one hand, it could spell an early end, but on the other it also gave him that two percent chance to live. It gave him the chance to find a friend, or just anybody to talk to, maybe even _him_. Now that he had the weaponry, the crossbows and pistols and even a few blades on his side, perhaps he could even save a few lives out there. He could be a hero...

_Who do you think you're kidding_, the more rational part of his mind spoke, _you're no hero. Never have been, and never will be. You're nothing but a useless, trashed piece of screw up._

"No," he spoke, feeling considerably more determined as he gripped the flare gun tight, "I have a chance, I've got to."

It felt somewhat silly speaking aloud to himself, but it did not negate that he felt like he believed those words a slight bit more. He had a chance out there, minuscule as it was, and if he played it smart and had luck on his side, he could end up being a hero. He could end up saving lives, he could even end up... _surviving_. He had that much to hope for. And hope was good, because the moment he lost hope, it would all be over. Not just for him, but for everybody else as well.

"I swear," he said, "I'll make a difference. I will, I'll go out there and make a difference. I swear I will."

* * *

"Fuck a duck!" Colby Trent, a.k.a. Boy #13, let loose as his right foot landed in a particularly squelchy puddle of mud. It was a phrase that he had taken a fancy to lately, and though he had no idea why anybody would want to fornicate a species of aquatic fowl (nor did he know what the words _fornicate_, _species_, _aquatic_ or _fowl_ meant), the words became a staple of his speech whenever something unpleasant had taken place. Having stepped in a hidden trench that soaked down to his sock was definitely a fuck-a-duck moment.

Stopping in the middle of the clearing to pull off his shoe and sock, Colby flung the soggy garment against the air in an effort to dry it. For all the good it did... it really didn't do much good. He was now hobbling on one foot, clutching a handful of sodden footwear and handling his Colt Anaconda in his other hand.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck a duck," he mumbled on as he ambled over next to a metal sign that guided visitors to the Haunted House. Leaning on the pole for support, he squeezed his foot back into the waterlogged trainer, but left the sock on the ground.

"Screw a kangaroo," answered a voice from nearby.

Recognizing the other person as somebody who had been one of his close friends, Colby responded in kind, "Sixty-nine a porcupine..."

"...orgy at the zoo," finished Rick Moretti, a.k.a. Boy #2, as he emerged from a Halloween-themed merchandise store with an immense grin on his face. "What's up, man? Great to see you still kickin'."

Despite the affability he displayed, Rick had his Smith & Wesson M19 revolver drawn and pointed squarely at his teammate's chest. Though simple-minded, Colby's mind was not so simplistic that he did not recognize the muzzle of a revolver as a sign of aggression. On the other hand, he did not even consider that raising his own weapon could lead to him getting shot multiple times in the gut. It was only Rick's admirable restraint that prevented Colby from becoming the game's tenth victim.

"Dude," Colby said in a confused tone, "what're you doing, put down the gun!"

"Sorry, just being precautious," Rick said, then amended at bemused look on Colby's face, "just being careful. I'm not taking any chances out here."

"I'm not taking any chances either," Colby echoed, "but I don't want either of us to end up dead, and one of us will end up shooting the other if we keep this up, innit? Maybe we should, I don't know, put down our weapons if we don't want to die?"

"Yeah," Rick said with distrust, "you go ahead and do that; I'll follow suit."

"Okay," Colby replied simply and lowered his gun. For one second it seemed almost like Rick was going to seize hold of the opportunity and blast several chunks of Colby's midsection out, but he too holstered his weapon neatly by his side instead.

"So what's up, man?" Colby asked nonchalantly, as though they were in any other situation but a deathmatch where their only chance of survival was by attempting to slaughter everybody they came across.

"Same old, same old," Rick replied as he had always before (_except that once_), "just doing my best to stay alive."

"Me too," Colby mused.

"You want to get out of the open where everybody can see us?" Rick asked suddenly, jerking a thumb towards the souvenir store decorated in a great variety of pumpkins and ghouls. "I'm not promising that it will be much safer in there than out here, but at least we'll be out of sight."

"Yeah," Colby replied slowly, "I guess. I should've thought of that."

"Well, come on," Rick said, waving his friend along as he hurried back into the confines of the store. _Indoors, indoors, probably safer than out there, innit? Of course, Rick's right, he's always right about things like these (not everything though), best to just follow him._

Gathering his pack but leaving the wet sock lying by the side of the road like a flattened slug, Colby followed Rick's lead and staggered inside the store. Amidst veils of fake cobwebs, he could see shelves lined with knickknacks and accessories that might've been frightening to a six-year-old. There were werewolves and witches and ghosts stuffed with cotton, a barrelful of what looked like maggots but proved to be gummy candy on closer examination, as well as an impressive array of snow globes for some reason, but what caught his eye was the cotton candy machine at the back of the store. One of the old-fashioned kind, it allowed its user to craft their own cotton-candy-on-a-stick from a packet of flavored sugar. In any other situation, Colby would've demanded one of his cronies to get him and Helen a portion each. In a Battle Royale, he saw little reason to be mindful of his absent girlfriend.

"Dude, that thing's, like, out of commission," Rick said with a bemused scowl as he watched Colby make straight for the cotton candy machine. It flickered on as Colby began punching random buttons on the control panel, noisily whirring up a sugar storm in the catching bowl.

"Seriously, not a good idea," Rick snapped as he shoved Colby aside and whipped the plug out of its wall socket. The machine slowly settled back into deactivated silence – but had he turned it off quick enough to avoid attracting any local attention?

"What the hell?" Colby asked angrily. "It's just cotton candy, it's not gonna do any harm!"

"The hell it isn't," Rick responded with a mix of incredulity and anger, "you know how much danger that could've gotten us in? This isn't a game, this is life and death, one stupid mistake could get us killed, you know that?"

"I – of course I know that!" Colby answered, though he knew well enough that he did not. It was common knowledge among Malton High School that Colby was no possessor of the greatest of intellects, but few knew that even common sense was somewhat lacking to the boy. The only things he had much of a grasp on were his libido, wrestling, and high school politics, in that order. It came as no surprise to the viewers from Malton who would later be watching this scene play out on a humongous stadium screen that Colby didn't recognize making unnecessary noises as an avoidable danger.

Exasperated, Rick practically tossed the other boy towards the counter area where he could not fiddle with any merchandise. "Look, we're in enough shit as it is, so stop being such a nuisance – I mean, stop being such a pain in the ass – because this is life and death, we're going to die if you don't bring your A-game."

_Bring your A-game_, Colby thought as he dimly recognized the phrase from somewhere. _Oh yeah, Coach. That's what Coach always says._

Still glowering with reflexive indignation (though somewhat distracted by the random thoughts that drifted in and out of his head at a constant pace), Colby stormed over to the other side of the merchandise store. He was pissed, he was real pissed, but there wasn't anything he could do because once again, Rick was _right_. Rick was right and that was what mattered. Rick was _always right_, and that always made him feel pissed. It wasn't that he disliked the feeling of being wrong, god knows that happened often enough that by all rights he should be desensitized to it, but that feeling of being inferior was what he hated. It almost didn't matter that he didn't have the mental capacity to be right most of the time out of a wrestling ring, just that feeling of people looking down on him for being dense... that was what ticked him off to no end.

"You know what?" he finally spat out after a momentary period of silence. "You can take your attitude and shove it up your preten– your pre– your high-and-mighty ass. I'm not here for a lecture, I'm here because I thought you were a friend. I could have shot you when you walked out but I didn't, I didn't just put two in your gut because I thought you were a friend!"

"Fuck you!" Rick bawled back with equal, if not more intense anger. "This isn't a game! This isn't a team effort, this isn't some sort of pretense bullshit you can will away! You'd think the fact that we're both holding guns would drill that through your skull, but this isn't just any game! We're gonna die out here!"

"Well," Colby choked, bringing his pistol up, "maybe we should."

"Whoa, hold on a sec," Rick suddenly exclaimed, whipping his own revolver out. For half a second, he debated opening fire; then he did. He squeezed the trigger as fast as his finger would allow, emptying the gun's ammunition in a matter of seconds. Colby only had time to yelp before the snow globes on the shelves behind him exploded, shards of glass and silver glitter joining the half a dozen bullet casings on the floor. Rick handled his firearm imprecisely; none of the bullets managed to strike Colby remotely near his center of mass, but one particular shot grazed the side of his outstretched hand with a sharp spike of pain.

He would have dropped to the floor and cradled his hand in pain and misery if he hadn't seen Rick scramble to reload next. Fearful that another barrage of shots could be coming, Colby forced the thought of pain from his mind. Though as imperceptible a jock as he was, he could tell Rick no longer saw him as anything other than an adversary. It was as though they were back in the game again.

There was a gun in his hands, but in a time of crisis Colby reverted straight to his instincts – his fists. Lacing both hands together around the pistol's grip to make one big fist, he rushed at Rick and slammed him in the kidneys. The Italian jock nearly went down with the force of the strike, but withstood the pain long enough to throw a kick up. The moment it struck his midsection, it finally occurred to Colby that this was no longer simple sparring. They weren't practicing after school in preparation for nationals. This was a dirty-as-it-gets brawl, and Colby was primed to fight dirty.

That epiphany lasted an instant, the next he was seeing nothing but a flash of denim as Rick's knee connected with his stomach, driving the bottommost two ribs to breaking point. The air exited his lungs in a hurried _whoosh_, and in pain that could have aroused tears, Colby collapsed to the floor amidst the shattered snow globes. A curved shard pierced through his cheek as he slammed his head against the floor in a combination of pain and frustration.

On the other hand, Rick wasn't unaffected; the blow to his kidneys had hit him hard, and though he managed to repel Colby with a retaliating strike, he was now down on one knee. One hand clutched the front of his shirt, while the other pressed on the floor for balance. The emptied Smith & Wesson was still pressed beneath his palm.

_But yours isn't empty_, Colby thought with a great deal of determination. _Shoot him, shoot him now, end this fight before he can do anything else. You knew it was coming, you knew it had to come down to this, if Rick was in your position he would've shot you..._

Laid out on the floor, Colby raised his revolver two inches off the floor. Enough for him to aim rudimentarily and make a kill shot. _Do it, just do it, do it do it do it!_

"Fuck you," Rick rasped out in resignation. "Fuck you, man. Just, just fuck you. Fucking hell..."

"I don't want to do this any more than you want to," Colby choked out. The words came out clumsy and wrong, not at all like the charismatic speech he's used to employing on cheerleaders and hot teachers alike. It wasn't just the shard stuck in the side of his face (though that was plenty troubling as well). This was all rapidly becoming a huge mess. Time and again he had seen best friends pitted against each other on each season's rendition of Battle Royale, but never once had he thought he might end up one of the participants. Or that he might end up having to kill Rick Moretti, honestly one of his few genuine friends from over the years.

And against him, against everything he's been taught and those few things that he's managed to pick up on his own, Colby lifted his gun for the slightest bit, and fired exactly once. The gunshot tore through the air like a solitary deafening firework. His arm smarted from the force of the recoil.

"What are the chances," he spoke lightly as gunpowder-scented smoke began rising from the barrel and from the studded bullet-dent in the cotton candy machine.

As the dark-haired jock shuddered in the realization that he was still alive, Colby prayed that he hadn't made the last mistake he would ever make.


	16. Hour 11: 41 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 11**

**41 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

There was an awful lot of blood on the sidewalk but nobody else around, which meant either somebody had gotten hurt badly enough to be threatened by massive blood loss yet managed somehow to amble farther on before expiring, or that some psychotic freak had murdered somebody else and lugged the body away for whatever reason. Either way, it wasn't enough cause for Micah Webster, a.k.a. Boy #6, to be more concerned than he already was, namely because he was as near the threshold as it could get anyway.

To say that Micah was troubled would have been an unwieldy understatement. He was frightened perhaps as bad as anybody else could get, taking every minuscule noise or movement as an indication that a hostile opponent must be nearby. He would be first to admit that his intuition had been wrong more frequently than otherwise, but the few occasions in which they had saved him from an early death had him convinced it was best to be on his guard. There were more than a few people whom he didn't trust in this game, and most of them not without a sound and supportive reason. They were selfish. They were manipulative. They were ruthless. They were the exact kind of people multinational corporations would have valued. Micah knew well enough that aside from the designated cannon fodder such as himself, nobody could be trusted.

But that didn't mean he couldn't give this Battle Royale something to think about. The superiors behind the game had deemed his less than two percent chance negligible, but if there was one thing Micah knew, it was the power of the commons.

"United, we stand," he muttered to himself.

Nobody was saying that they had much of a chance; in fact they probably had a greater chance of winning if they all put their weapons together in a makeshift regiment. But Micah was still determined to try his best. He had the required skills. He might not have the equipment yet, but that shouldn't prove too difficult to affix. After all, what was a resort island without a functional Internet cafe?

The third factor though, was the one that troubled him most. He didn't have the people. If he wanted this to have the remotest possibility of being effectively pulled off, he would need people on his side for a number of reasons. People could provide skills; whatever that he didn't have or couldn't spare to perform, he could have others do. People could provide support; in times when it looked as though everything was doomed to high hell, morale would be an invaluable commodity. And most of all, people equaled numbers. If the cameras monitoring the game discovered what they were up to, they couldn't go ahead and activate all their collars with little apprehension, not when they had the numbers on their side.

But the foil to that was that Micah was not a social person. Interactive skills were never his thing. Games were. Computers were. Hacking his way in and out of a supposedly secure government network was. But he didn't have the power to make people trust him or believe in him.

He had friends that were in this game. He could start with contacting them. He could analyze the list and mark down those who were slated to be cannon fodder, and try his best to convince them in a text message of one-hundred-and-forty characters or less. Yeah, that would work, wouldn't it?

Going through the contestant list in his mind (a near eidetic memory came in handy in times as such; he wouldn't have to risk letting his guard down to find the list), he immediately identified several people whom he thought could be trustworthy. _Phoebe, she's only chosen because of her history with that jock ex-boyfriend of hers. Bonnie and Alicia are good people, if a little too chirpy at times. Adrian's a decent guy, so's Justin, maybe Jeremy (no maybes, this ain't the time for maybes), and Joanne's only in here to fill the stereotype of fat girl so if she hasn't lost her mind yet she'd be an asset too._

All that would account to nothing if he couldn't influence them to put enough trust behind him and his cause. All the brainpower in the world would do little good if the people had no conviction in him. But if things worked out the way he intended them to, he wouldn't have to, would he? All he would have to do was to find one of the popular kids, somebody who's inherently good and hadn't lost their morals. Or maybe one of the ethically gray ones who were still struggling to accept that the world wanted them to be evil. If he found somebody he could rely on to rally the masses, everything would come together just fine.

"The people, united," he whispered with a grim smile, "will never be defeated."

* * *

_Dear god, you know I've never really been your biggest fan, but I swear to god (wait, that doesn't really work, does it) if you get me out of this alive and in one piece, I will convert so fast it will make your head spin until it pops right off. Wait, that's blasphemy, isn't it? Well, Hankie, my man, you might just be screwed either way then._

Hank Norton, a.k.a. Boy #17, was surprised he even had the sound of mind to let his thoughts wander (_then again that might be the undiagnosed ADD_) as he and his newly allied travelling partner Alexis Brightwell, a.k.a. Girl #5, huddled together in a Mediterranean cafe that resembled something out of a Martha Stewart cooking show. The unlikely pair was seated on the yellow oak floor behind a chrome-edged pie counter, pressed together to keep out of sight of anybody who might have gone wandering by the front of the idyllic store. Alexis was tearing into a pack of uncooked rice-a-roni with the ferocity of a great white shark gnawing on a hapless seal pup. Though he was hungry, Hank did not interrupt Alexis's hasty meal; he knew better than to piss off a volatile girl who was currently in sole possession of both their guns.

It was an imperfect arrangement, but not one that he would criticize within the girl's earshot. Though they were technically allies in the context of the Battle Royale, the authority along with the firepower was all in the control of one Alexis Brightwell. She called the shots, and Hank knew better than to change things. Not until he had some collateral of his own, at least...

The situation he was presently in was eerily parallel with that on the outside world. Ever the cognizer, Hank found that there was plenty to ruminate over as a victim of the system. For simplicity's sake he chose not to. God knew he already had plenty to be concerned over.

_Then again_, an inquisitive voice in the back of his mind pronounced, _this could be your last chance to ever contemplate things like this. You could be dead in less than an hour. You could be dead in less than a minute, if Alexis ups and shoots you square between the eyes. Let's face it, as much as you try to convince yourself that two percent means something tangible, odds are that you'll be leaving this island in a body bag with bullets buried in your skull. Probably courtesy of the girl sitting next to you right now._

"I hate this," he said, frustrated with the realization of imminent death, "god damn it, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this with the glorious passion of a thousand conflagrating suns."

"You're not the only one, I hate this too," Alexis said mildly as she choked down the last of the rice-a-roni. "I like to think that everybody in this game hates it, at least a little bit. Even the super psycho ones, I think they've got to hate this a little bit."

"No, that's not what I'm talking about," Hank groused. "I mean, I hate the sick fuckers behind the game as much as you do, probably more in fact, but what really gets me is how, how this revolting game pits us against each other, against friends and classmates and people we sat next to at the pep rally, or, or people we made out with under the bleachers. It divests everybody of the trust between us, not just people in the game but also those who are watching from the outside."

Alexis licked her lips. Crumbs of vermicelli gummed to her lip gloss. "Now's not really the best time for this kind of political rhetoric, Hank."

"You see, that's where you're wrong," Hank said impulsively. "Now's exactly the best time for it. Now's the _only_ time for it, because if we don't then nobody will, nobody will ever criticize the flaws in this _clusterfuck_ of a system, and the motherfuckers will get away with what they've been getting away with for centuries. Nobody ever complains because it's not their duty to, or, or because it's not the time and place to, and this just isn't right. It's fucked up."

"Whoa, take it easy, John Lennon," Alexis said, turning to look at him, her eyes slightly wider than they had been before, "you know the only reason I don't think it's a good idea to fight the system now is because of these explosive shackles around our neck. I'm all for criticizing the government's wrongdoings-"

"That's one way to put it," Hank said with a bitter laugh.

"-but not at the cost of our lives," Alexis continued affirmed. "The only priority right now is to stay alive. If you're dead, you won't be able to do anything besides rot, much less fight back."

"Isn't this the same way it's always been though?" Hank forced out, his expression intense. "It's always been their way or no way. Anybody who's ever done anything – who's ever _said_ anything – against how they're doing things, anybody who's against them... it's a goddamned monarchy. If you don't go with the flow, you'll end up dead or as fugitives. Like those guys from the Republic of Greater East Asia. Like Mandy Lorres and her kids. Like us."

"This isn't the same," Alexis tried to argue, but Hank was having none of it.

"No, you know what? This is exactly the same thing that's been going on," Hank said with a vicious gesture. "The bastard corporations who have been controlling the US of A aren't going to break up on their own. It's always been like this, every past empire that's ever been overturn. Any successful revolution in the past was built on the blood of the innocent. People have to die for any cause to establish itself, I'm not even going to bother saying that this is rightful, but it's a necessary sacrifice."

"And you want to spark off that neckbomb for what?" Alexis shot back. "A half-assed speech that for all we know won't even make it to the screens? If the people behind this do their jobs right, all this will end up on the cutting room floor. Nobody will hear what you're saying aside from present company, and tell me, what the fuck will that accomplish?"

"If I die," Hank snapped, "if they end up detonating my collar because they don't like what I'm saying, then they'll play right into it. This is a Battle Royale, like it or not there are millions of fans of this game. Millions of people will be watching us. If they kill me right here right now, people will see. People will see how I'll die by collar detonation, and people will see what's leading up to it. They'll hear what I've been saying, and maybe to most of them this is nothing but terrorist diatribe, but you can't say that of the millions of people out there, not one of them will see some truth in this."

Alexis opened her mouth in retaliation, but no sound came out. Her lower lip sagged a little, exposing the ridge of her bottom row teeth. The creases in her brow smoothed themselves out as she slowly closed her mouth. "I don't like this either. I don't like this one bit. You can say what you want and sacrifice yourself in the process, but I don't like this."

"Me neither," Hank could only mutter.

* * *

Like a woman who had just walked out of a nightmare, Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2 walked to the carved oak Elizabethan four poster bed in the corner of the room. The walls and the floor were constructed of plaster molded to resemble masonry, but the ceiling was painted midnight blue with half a thousand twinkly electric stars. There were also assorted furniture in the room, including a mirror-and-dresser set, a loveseat, a wardrobe, and an imitation fireplace with fiberglass flames, as well as a svelte Indian princess crafted entirely out of wax sweltering herself by the forged hearth. She leaned in through the swaths of draping, sinking into the luxurious bedspread. Softness swelled beneath her body, cradling her as she began to drift off into dreamland.

She had been awake for nearly half a day, and the constant running and hiding that she's been has only been beleaguering her physical and mental strain. The onsets of exhaustion had been drifting at the rims of her vision for some time. Barring an unexpectedly early elimination (Helen saw herself surviving until the evening of the second night, at the very least), she could still have to face hours of tension and elusion. Even if she somehow managed to find coffee or energy drinks, she would be miserable without some rest. The best idea was to snatch some snooze as early as she could. That way she could ensure she would be alert in her waking hours.

She had consulted the map and thought she could find a bed in the fairytale castle replica. Failing that, there were at least a multitude of rooms in there that she could hide in without being sought out by another contestant. She never reached there; nearly one-third of the way there, she came across a gallery that the signposts identified as Madame Rousseau's Waxworks. On an impulse she ventured in, and instead of a murderous brute she found a functional bed.

Sleep came to her like an epiphany; after a lengthy period of teasing, it hit her like a freight train. Darkness embraced her at first. Then came the dreams.

In her dreams, she wasn't wearing her collar. The only thing around her neck was the cross necklace that Holly Richmond always wore, which made no sense to her because Helen knew she was an unfaithful Baptist, had been and always will be. She was in a room that was simultaneously familiar and alien, like somebody had painted all the things in her room in different colors, then placed the bed she was sleeping in where her original bed had been. She rose, cool and fluid, feeling bile rise to the back of her throat.

Phoebe Lascano sat in her computer chair, peering unabashedly at her behind those prim spectacles. She spoke, "We found out."

_About what?_ Helen wanted to scream, but the vomit in her throat stifled any chance of a comeback.

"We know about your sister," Phoebe said, smiling revealingly. "We'll tell the other girls and everybody will know about you. You'll fall from your throne."

_Please, you can't know about this_, Helen sobbed silently. _She's too young, she's, she's just a kid! Leave her alone, you freak!_

Phoebe shook her head. "No can do, Miss Cutest Couple Rah-Rah. You stole Colby and this is retribution. Everybody will see what a monster your sister is... and your status at this school will be annihilated. You won't be head cheerleader. You won't even be a Sierra Mist. You'll forever be known as the sister of the mutant."

_Fuck you, you fucking hussy! She's no business of yours, keep out of this, keep out of this or me and the girls will, we will, we'll..._ Helen trailed away, knowing she was screaming a losing battle. This was a secret that could not be disclosed. It was her shame. It was her skeleton. She had no idea how Phoebe Lascano had managed to dig up her family history, but Helen was fully prepared to deny the existence of Susanna Quinn. It was a secret she was willing to take to the grave.

"We know. The cameras know." Phoebe smiled again, winked, and flames began charring at her edges. Not only at her, but her entire room, every piece of furniture and keepsake in her room was smoldering. The posters and CDs of the Lady, her schoolbooks, her closet and all the clothes and shoes inside. With a great _whoosh_, her entire desk went up in flames, spitting papers and wooden splinters every which way. The pink wallpaper curled and peeled from the walls. The carpet was warm underneath her bare foot as she walked. Sparks licked at her flesh.

_What's going on_, she cried without making a solitary noise. _Mommy, Daddy, Sissy, where are you? Daddy? I need you, please, come to me, I need you guys!_

Then she saw it. A tiny bundle of rags on the shelves where she had displayed her porcelain horse collection in a different world. Something, no, somebody was wrapped inside the cloth, waddling and poking a chubby foot out. Helen squealed in fear – the first noise she's made since waking up in this foreign room.

"Go on, don't you want to know what we've found out?" Phoebe's voice, only it wasn't just her voice but also Ryan Sterling's (which she had come to known after watching all those seasons of America's Best Talents and the occasional episode of Battle Royale), and also the Lady's rasp baritone. She thought she also recognized some of the other girls from school joining in the chorus of damning condemnation.

"Look at her, Helen. Look at Sissy, and see your shame," the collective voice berated. The tangles of cloth began to unwrap themselves, and now Helen could see that in the middle of the rags that used to be her cheerleading sweater was an infant. Except it also wasn't, it was a monster that her mother had home delivered. A newborn monster with no arms, and in its red and bawling face Helen could see a tiny cluster of well-formed fingers protruding from one eye socket. They were so perfectly formed that Helen could see a half-moon cuticle on the tip of each finger, where the fingernails should be. The monster waved handlessly at her, and Helen stepped back, screaming-

"She's not a monster," Helen whimpered in her fitful sleep. A fresh sheen of sweat had formed on her skin.

* * *

While Helen was having this steadily more unpleasant dream, a girl who shared her National History class was sitting quietly on a park bench outside the town hall where Paige Wilcox, a.k.a. Girl #19, had met her end. She hadn't ventured inside, and thusly was fortunately spared of the grisly image of her mutilated body thrown against the side of the Steinway piano. Instead, Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #17, was trying to embattle herself with a trinity of weaponry, no small feat considering that she had started out in the game without an offensive weapon.

Though distant from an avid follower of Battle Royale, she knew enough to know that there were always weapons to be found in the playing field. As long as she could figure out where to look and how to stay alive in the mean time, all would go smoothly enough.

And indeed it had. She had walked into the game hearing frantic footsteps, and mistaking them for the oncoming sprint of an assailant, she had spent the better part of the next hour galloping out of the immediate vicinity. Once she was certain she had shaken off any potential pursuers, she began rationalizing. It was the only way she knew to deal with the situation at hand, by focusing on the details one at a time and not letting everything overtake her at once. Her assigned weapon was not a weapon but a bulletproof Kevlar vest. It laded heavy as she hastily slipped it over her torso. There, she was at the very least safe from gunshots to her chest or her back. Maybe not completely safe, but it had the capability of altering a lethal gunshot to a fist-sized bruise. In a game where bullets were to be expected around every corner, it was a godsend.

But she was still unsafe. The Kevlar vest bestowed upon her temporary protection, but it was no good if she couldn't strike back at somebody who was determined enough to attack her. If they had a blunt or bladed weapon, they wouldn't be hindered by the vest. If they had a firearm, all it would take was a slightly different aim. She couldn't rely completely on the vest. At that time she had been hiding in a merchandise store (this one with a woodland theme, though in terms of utilities it had little diversity compared to the store that Rick Moretti, a.k.a. Boy #2, and Colby Trent, a.k.a. Boy #13, had nearly killed each other in). The first thing she grasped was a mug with a chipmunk's oversized head emblazoned on it, and so she had set off, trading each time she came across something that was either superior or more portable.

She switched the mug for a brick that lined a sectioned off garden overgrown with oleander and bindweed, then the brick for a vintage carnival glass lamp that could have easily sold for upwards of three hundred dollars in a Boston antiques shop. After that she had accidentally smashed the lamp into smithereens when a small flock of sparrows rushed her, and so had been forced to remain empty-handed for an hour before she found a rusty shovel in a gardening shed.

The shovel was now a trusty member of her arsenal, as her brief encounter with Sophie Davies, a.k.a. Girl #12, would prove. It had happened nearly half an hour ago, and Jolene could still feel her skin stipple as she recalled it. The red-haired girl had appeared out of nowhere, screaming in a strangely nasal language that Jolene couldn't understand. Sophie had been gripping a metal box, and her clothes were bloodstained to the point that they were more dark brown than anything else. Jolene had done what any logical person would do and assumed she was hostile; she let her have the business end of the shovel. Bringing it down in a whistling arc, she clipped Sophie's shoulder and was fairly certain she had drawn blood in a thin, pink fan. Her second strike found the back of Sophie's head as the other girl turned to run, and that was it. Sophie had dashed off in incoherent terror and Jolene had no intention of further engaging her.

The knitting needles, those she had found shortly after discovering the shovel. They had been stuck in the semi-completed shreds of a little pink sock that she found in a trash can that had either been blown over or knocked astray by a wild boar. She ripped the needles out with little relish, and had pocketed them as an additional assurance. In the event that somebody had forcibly disarmed her, she could still have a pair of spikes to strike back with.

Last on her list was a baggie of cocaine, roughly half an ounce if her estimation was anything to go by. Jolene had never partaken in experimentation with anything more potent than alcohol, but she read enough novels to recognize it and know its effects. She knew if she was really in a ditch, it could prove unbelievably helpful. And so she had kept it.

And after taking a brief rest on the benches, Jolene was getting ready to set off again. She had tied and retied the laces of her trainers until they were sufficiently tight. She had made damn sure of her current location and the nearest seven escape routes – one of which involved entering the town hall and going out through the back exit.

Gripping her shovel by the rag-wrapped grip (she had fashioned it out of a handkerchief to prevent herself from cutting her hand and contracting tetanus), Jolene leapt to her feet. At that exact moment, a slightly heavyset boy came into view at the end of the street. He had a thatch of wavy hair that had been dyed brown, and wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses that looked on the verge of slipping off his nose. In his hands, he held something that glinted silver. Jolene had little trouble placing him; she recognized him as the president of the AV club at school. His name eluded her, though she was fairly certain it was Mitch Something, a.k.a. Boy Number Something. In the end it mattered little, because this wasn't election. There was no point in negotiating anything. It was fight or flight.

Raising her shovel in a gesture of aggression, Jolene screamed, "Get the fuck away!"

She turned, her entire body honed and ready to sprint. She wasn't a runner and came nowhere near the alacrity of Paige Wilcox, but she believed she could outrun the other boy. Even if he caught up, she'd bat him away with the shovel. If that too failed, the knitting needles. _No way I'm dying today._

Her confidence might have proven correct, but the boy had other ideas. He shouted back in a loud, booming voice that would've alerted any predators that hadn't already heard Jolene's cry, "HEY, YOU THERE! I NEED YOUR HELP!"

_This could be a trap. Even if he's hurt, there's nothing you can do to help him_, the self-preserving voice in the back of her mind insisted. But that wasn't true, she had the baggie of coke. She knew cocaine was a stimulant and an anesthetic. If he was hurt, she could at least relieve his pain. If he wasn't... well, she could always throw the coke in his face and whack him out cold with the shovel. But it seemed like it was a whole lot of risk for a Good Samaritan deed. _You could get killed. Don't do this._

"Oh, hell," she muttered to her conscience as she begin to run towards the boy.

She still approached him cautiously, with the shovel held high and ready to swing down at a moment's notice. Mitch Something looked wholly uninjured, which would've been cause for alarm but he was now beckoning her over with great enthusiasm. She troubled over this for all of two seconds, then decided she would hear him out. If he meant harm, she would either hit him, or run away, or both. It was that simple. The weapon in his hands was a simple sickle, the kind farmers used to harvest crops in some faraway farmland country. Unless she got too close for comfort, he couldn't do any significant harm to her. The Kevlar would see to that, and her caution would make sure nothing else happened.

Jolene stood steadfast, comfortably out of his reach and fully prepared to turn tail and sprint should Mitch Something prove hostile. "Drop that blade you got there before you come any closer, or so help me god I will cleave your skull open."

"Don't do that," Mitch Something breathed out. There was a silvery tinkle as the sickle fell to the ground. Mitch Something put both his arms in the air and flipped them around twice to show that he hadn't concealed anything in the palms or the back of his hands. But it would still be too impulsive to trust him. He could very well have another weapon hidden, like how she had the knitting needles concealed in the sleeves of her sweater. Her eyes widened as she noticed that he had his left hand in the side pocket of his pack. That was suspicious behavior. Not good.

Mitch Something took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Jolene acted before an intelligible syllable could come out of his throat. Swinging the shovel in a whistling arc, she brought it down inches in front of his face, stilling it directly in front of his chest. The tip of the shovel gashed open the front of his sky blue T-shirt, exposing flesh underneath. Narrowing her eyes, Jolene snarled, "Don't bother trying anything, sucker."

"No, this isn't-"

"Shut the fuck up," Jolene said angrily. She slammed the shovel diagonally down. The flat side struck his wrist, and his hand whipped out along with a small, grey, rectangular object. It clattered twice on the ground, then rolled to a stop like a peculiarly shaped Tetris block. A cell phone, not one of those fancy, feature-heavy technicality wonders, but the standard kind that she also found in her own pack. It came pre-programmed with a list of contestant names, and allowed for them to text each other for a maximum of five messages, each up to a hundred and forty characters. It wasn't what she expected; to be truthful she thought she might have rapped away a pistol or a dagger before she examined it more closely.

"Don't say a word," the boy hissed urgently, then knelt and snatched up his phone. His lips stretched as he clicked furiously on the keypad.

Jolene couldn't understand what was going on, until Mitch Something pushed the cell phone up for her to read. The screen was cracked down the middle, fortunately not enough to render the LCD display inoperative. Squinting her eyes, she peered at the message on the cell phone. The recipient field was blank, and a cursor was still blinking at the end. Mitch Something had quite obviously just typed it out. The message itself was succinct and to the point.

'if you help me i can get our collars off, nod if u agree'

Jolene swallowed. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I'm suggesting we team up and fight, I have the smarts and you have the connections, we'll be a power duo," Mitch said deliberately as his fingers became a blur on the cell phone's keypad. The previous message was now erased, leaving only one word: 'microphones.'

She goggled at him, her expression one of puzzled stupidity. She nodded hesitantly. "I'm not too sure... explain."

Mitch Something flashed a nervous smile. "Between the two of us, we have enough weaponry to take on the others. Not all at once, obviously, but we can get them here one by one. We tell them we have a plan to get out of here, I've seen the previous seasons and whenever people do this, there are bound to be suckers who fall for it."

The cell phone read: 'i have a plan, but i need your connections. we need enough people to make this work'

"I... I need to think about it," Jolene answered.

She took the phone from Mitch Something, typing slower than him by a clear mile but still managing to work out her message. 'why?'

"I'll explain about the rest later," Mitch Something said as he licked his lips, "when we're somewhere safer."

On the phone he typed, 'i'm fairly sure i can hack into their system, disable collars and escape!'

Backspaced, then typed some more, 'but we need people!'

"Okay," Jolene said aloud, deliberating over every word before articulating it, "so how do we get people to come?"

"Text messages, we'll text them and ask them to come, then we do our thing. You're VP of the student body, people trust you."

"Are you... are you sure this will work? Because I don't want in if you don't trust it's going to work. I don't watch the show a lot but I know that these... alliances, never work well. They always end up..."

She searched for the right word to convey what she was trying to connote, and found one that was near enough, "...snuffed."

"Trust me," Mitch Something said simply, then continued on, "we get as far as we can on this plan, and then we're through and we'll do whatever. That sound good?"

What he typed was: 'not 100%, but very good chance. i'm good. we can do this.'

And he said it again, "Trust me."

"I need to think," was all Jolene said next as she slinked over to the wooden bench. She sat down exhaustedly, the shovel and knitting needles forgotten. Mitch Something retrieved his fallen sickle and came to her side, holding up his phone. He had typed out something else, but Jolene batted it away with one hand. She didn't want to read it, she needed to think over this. This was no simple decision, this was asking her to place all her remaining trust and hope in somebody who was for all intents and purposes, a stranger. This was insane. There was no chance this could work. But she admitted as well equipped as she desired to be, her chances weren't great. Mitch had a tentative plan, whether it would prove functional or not was irrelevant. It would give her a better chance at... surviving, at the very least.

Besides, if things got downright south, she could always defect. Knock him out with the shovel, maybe put a knitting needle through his jugular. Run away from the others (_if there are any others_, she amended) and get back to surviving on her lonesome.

"Well?" Mitch hissed.

Jolene buried her face in her hands. Her brown hair hung in drifts. She needed time... she needed to think.

"Not now," she finally looked up tiredly and said. "I'll think about it and I'll stay by your side in the mean time, but I can't decide right now. Give me some time. Give me an hour, okay? Or maybe, not even that. After the noon report. After the report, after we hear if anybody else's killed. Then I'll let you know if I'm on your side or not."

"Okay, I can accept that," Mitch said grimly.

"I really appreciate that, Mitch," Jolene said with equal enthusiasm as she felt for the baggie of coke. _No, not the time for it, gotta keep your head clear, gotta stay focused. Besides, you don't even know how, you could end up ODing and how will that help you? Stay focused, stay in line!_

"It's Micah," the boy corrected, "Micah Webster. Shall we go somewhere safer?"

And so Boy #6 and Girl #17 moseyed into the town hall, where they found Paige Wilcox's decomposing body – a disconcerting discovery that did nothing to make Jolene's decision any easier – and moved her to a more respectful position with considerable effort. Still, by the time the mosquito alarm preceding the noon report shrieked out of the speakers, Jolene found herself rapidly spiraling towards a single decision. It had come down to this, and it would not be an easy path to take. But... considering everything, it was probably the best thing to do. _Not probably, it _is_ the best thing to do under present circumstances. It's the _only_ thing you can do._

With her left hand, she ran the pad of her thumb against the knitting needles concealed in her sleeves. With her right, she clutched the pre-assigned cell phone tightly enough that no living creature could rip it from her bare fingers.

_Well, there's no contest, really. You've been thinking something like this since the last report anyway-_

Turning to Micah with an indecipherable determination in her eyes, Jolene made a decision.


	17. Hour 12: 41 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 12**

**41 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

It had been twelve hours since the game had begun for the fifty-turned-forty-one unfortunate contestants who were now scattered in various areas on the vacation island. Many were feeling the onsets of constant tension, and a few like Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, had sought out a sheltered place to catch some early winks. What few drifts of rest and security they could find were quickly torn away by the regular mosquito alarm that blasted out loudly from the loudspeakers that had been strategically arranged over the battlefield. The asleep contestants awoke in shock, the unaware jumped and turned to it, and those who expected it met it with either dread or expectation.

"It's me again, little monsters, you know what that means," Julie Winnfield crowed, "it's time for your noontime report on who's dead and who's responsible, courtesy of yours truly, the fabulously homicidal Season Eight winner Julie Winnfield!

She applauded herself politely and singularly. "Well, you know what I'm here for, so let's not delay this any more than it already is. First to die in the past six hours is – was – or, y'know, whatever... Girl #19, Paige Wilcox, hacked up to shit by Caleb Kennedy. Then another female contestant, this one Girl #6, Bonnie Nichols, first shot by Courtney Wilkes and then stabbed and cut up by George Caiger... both of whom happen to be involved in the next name on the list. Congratulations to Miss Wilkes, who not only didn't die but also gave Boy #10, George Caiger, a rapid-fire injection of lead. Next up... hold on, let me check against... aha, next victim shares a number with the previous one – Girl #10, Gail Arquette. Very nicely done, Regina Crosby, for your brilliantly inspired quasi-backstab quasi-ice axe murder. And finally on the list, another male contestant balances the books somewhat. Boy #9, Adrian Perry, stabbed in that big thigh artery I can't remember the name to, by Sophie Davies. Congrats, I guess, never thought you'd have the guts or the strength to kill someone, girl. Always thought you were meant to be cannon fodder, but by all means keep on surprising me.

Julie sheaved her notes in a roughly organized pile, then crammed it aside. "Well, that concludes our noontime report. Keep up the good fight, little monsters, and to that special somebody who's going to succeed my throne of the latest Battle Royale champion – stay alive. The rest of you, promise me you'll bring the fight, okay? We need carnage. We need violence. We need all that and tons more, so do your best to deliver. This is Julie Winnfield, and I'll be back in six hours."

The loudspeakers squealed away to a dying hiss of static, leaving the forty-one contestants still trapped on the island feeling varying degrees of distress. Many of them were particularly troubled by the fact that they knew some people on the island wouldn't even feel the slightest bit of remorse for what they had done.

Jack Brierly, a.k.a. Boy #1, marveled briefly at the idea that his theft of Paige's gun could have led to her demise, then as quickly as the thought had entered his mind, he decided that it was not his issue. He was responsible for only himself, and he had taken good caution of that.

Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, knew she couldn't possibly fall back into dreamland after hearing the report.

Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, was doing his best to let the death of Nadine Ellis's, a.k.a. Girl #1, slip from his mind. He gritted his teeth as he ran blindly through the woods, knowing he couldn't afford to spend any more time grieving.

Mallick Sullivan, a.k.a. Boy #11, mentally assessed the victims for some time before eventually deciding it was no big loss. Gail and George weren't good people as far as he knew, and the rest were weak enough that their deaths had no notable consequences to the grand scheme of things. Paige's death might be the only one he truly regretted.

Sophie Davies, a.k.a. Girl #12, froze at the mention of her name in the report. She didn't even think of that... would most of her friends think of her as a vicious killer now?

Jeremy Paisley, a.k.a. Boy #15, was relieved to hear the name he's been dreading to hear wasn't on the report. That would give him hope to keep searching.

Holly Richmond, a.k.a. Girl #15, took the time to mouth a silent prayer.

Drake Farrell, a.k.a. Boy #20, thought most of the victims in the past six hours had deserved what was coming to them. Bonnie, Adrian, Gail... it was unbelievable that they lasted as long as they already had. Julie Winnfield was correct in that a certain percentage of contestants had already been pre-assigned as cannon fodder, and those three definitely fitted into the category.

Alicia Kerr, a.k.a. Girl #21, had mostly abated her tears when a fresh batch erupted over the report. She thought Elijah might look more sympathetically at her if she appeared distraught... not that she wasn't, Bonnie was a good friend after all. But the heart wanted what it wanted.

Alyssa Easton, a.k.a. Girl #24, simply felt bad for her current roommate.

* * *

She hardly reacted at all to the midday announcement. Like a woman possessed, she silently rummaged through the contents of her duffel sack. Rations, water bottles, bullets, map and compass. Metal flasks. A cool touch of metal grazed her wrist, and she snatched it up.

"Are you sure you're okay? If you need to talk, you know," Alyssa asked as she sat next to her on the hotel bedspread.

"All I need is a drink," slurred Brooke Hilton, a.k.a. Girl #22, as she twisted the cap off and downed the flask's contents. Alyssa flinched, wondering if she was morally obliged to put a stop to this bingeing that had been going on since they had ran into each other at the hotel lobby. She had entertained Brooke and had even had a drink or two of her own, but if this went on any further... Brooke was liable to die of sheer alcohol poisoning. And where would that leave her?

Scrunched in her other hand was a sheet of paper. It had been provided with the map. A list of the contestants' names. Four had been crossed off after the first death report, and only three more since then. Paige, Bonnie, George... but then the hand holding the pen had trembled and let go. Gail Arquette... not a close friend by any means, but Alyssa recognized that name. The Arquettes were a rich and influential family that owned a pharmaceutical company that raked in the big bucks. Gail Arquette, the only daughter of Davis Arquette, would someday have been heiress to that massive fortune her father had assembled.

Perhaps because of that reason, she had never really bothered to put in any effort at school or otherwise, instead adopting a fairly _laissez-faire_ approach to everything until Brooke Hilton came along. Brooke, herself from a widowed mother who owned a chain of hotels, took to Gail like a honey bee to a flower. Alyssa didn't know what the story behind them was, but those two had stuck together through all four years of high school.

Until the Battle Royale.

The game had taken groups of friends and crafted distrust out of them. Brooke and Gail weren't the only pair. Elijah, Jolene, Frank... none of them had attempted to contact her either. And Alyssa didn't dare to text them either. It would be too dangerous to leave the safety of their hotel room, or to invite any more people here.

Alyssa sighed. There was nothing else to be done here. The only thing she could rely on right now was her will to survive. That, and the Luger pistol she had been provided with. As long as she had both of these things, she would still live. The hotel was her personal fort, and anybody coming to seek trouble would find it.

She fumbled for her pistol, pulled it out, and went to stand watch by the window. Brooke was clearly in no condition to do anything but further intoxicate herself. She would have to take care of things around here on her own.

Sprawled drunkenly in the verdant couch, Brooke stared intently at the mouth of an empty flask, as if willing the flask to start filling itself with alcohol again. When that didn't happen, she spoke, "Gail... was a good friend."

"Was she?"

"She wasn't like me. She had a future," Brooke said with startling clarity. Her eyes were bloodshot and brimming.

"None of us do any more," Alyssa said harshly. Brooke hitched her breath at the sound of that, then hiccupped quite loudly. Even at an arm's length away from her, Alyssa could smell the alcohol tinting the room. It irradiated from her like a cloud of nuclear poison, and even Alyssa, a casual drinker herself, had to wrinkle her nose when she approached her. Sitting next to Brooke and putting an arm around her shoulders, Alyssa did her best to soothe the girl.

"Sweetie, you might want to ease up on the drinking," she said. "Go and take a hot shower if the water heater still works. I'll stand watch in the mean time."

"My only friend's dead, and you expect me to act like everything's fine and dandy and sunshine?" Brooke said heatedly.

"I expect you to want to survive this thing," Alyssa retorted, "and I suspect Gail, bless her heart, would expect the same thing. Go on and get yourself into better shape. I'm not going to die because you refuse to stop bawling over Gail. And you know what? I won't let you die because of this either. We're both going to survive this fucked up game, so you need to get your game on. You hear that?"

"Fuck you," Brooke said, "and you know what? This surviving thing, this is just a joke. We're all going to die anyway, so why fight it? Might as well go with the flow, the way I see it."

"You want to die? Do you want to die, is that it?" Alyssa asked with a hitch in her voice.

Disconsolate, Brooke replied, "Maybe. I don't know. All I know is that neither of us is going to win this thing, so we might as well give it up."

"You don't know that," Alyssa said, contested. "Look, I'm not saying anything either, but maybe things will turn out for the better. There might be a secret escape route out or something. A chance for us to start a new life elsewhere. You know, there's always stuff on the international news about terrorists interrupting foreign Battle Royale games to rescue the contestants. Let's just stay focused and hope for the best, okay? You never know how things could turn out."

"Do you think that could happen?" Brooke asked in an almost childlike manner. "Do you honestly think that some sort of deus ex machine is going to swoop by and rescue us?"

"Not a chance," Alyssa deadpanned.

* * *

What Kurt Vogel, a.k.a. Boy #3, felt right now was absolutely nothing. He was looking at the dirty blonde girl's remains sprawled out like a vulture's buffet feast, and he feels nothing. There was no pity, there was no disgust, there wasn't even any indifferent curiosity in there, because Kurt felt nothing about this whole thing. Not the whole idea of being ensnared in a murder game, that shook him somewhat, but the idea that other people would die. He simply saw no point in grieving because ultimately, these were just... people. Statistics, if you will. In less than two weeks' time, the merchandise shelves will be lined with all sorts of biographies, photo albums, emblazoned jewelry, trading cards, coloring books for the kids, and then the new season comes along and it's... poof. Reduced to nothing but a statistic forever.

He thought the other boy that died incredibly early on considering his projections and betting odds, Leon Delgado, a.k.a. Boy #4, might have thought the same. Leon understood how things would be, not just in here, in this deathgame, but out there in the real world. He knew, alright, he knew beyond a doubt that things weren't as fairytale as the powers would like the masses to believe.

"Well, ain't this a fun sight to behold," Kurt mused to himself as he idly nudged the blonde girl's skull with the tip of his boot.

More than anything else, he's just unbelievably bored with the way things are going. They said it was a game that would test every ounce of their survival instinct, but Kurt defied that. Since he had parted ways with Deborah La Rue, a.k.a. Girl #3, at the beginning of the game, he had not seen any sign of another human contestant until now. He had heard them, certainly. There were gunshots every once in a while, always far away and nowhere near where he was. Once or twice, there were people either screaming or bawling nearby, but there weren't any visible signs of human activity otherwise. Nothing to challenge his wits and brawn, nothing to suggest this isn't even an enormous cosmic joke to make a fool of him.

And now, the first two human beings he's come across since leaving the roller coaster station, these two people are dead puppets.

Bonnie and George. One or both of them killed by Courtney Wilkes, a.k.a. Girl #9, that aloof girl who had always been in the corner. Nobody had ever thought much of her (to be truthful, they thought much more of her mother, the retired porn princess who still had a pretty _sweet_ pair of tits), but Kurt was willing to bet if George and Bonnie had the capacity to, they would think different now.

Dimly in the back of his mind, Kurt wished this won't be how the rest of the game would go. Surviving the program would be awesome, it would be a chilling story to tell to the rest of the guys if they weren't mostly dead, but what would good would it be if he had done so without seeing any living person the entire time? He needed to fight and fuck and fight some more, because that was just who Kurt Vogel was. Standing idly around while Malibu Barbie and Meathead Ken slaughtered each other was not his idea of winning the game. Blood would have to be spilled, and if it weren't his it would have to be by his hands. He totally understood the implications, hey, if his number was up, his number was up, right?

But that wouldn't be possible, not unless he found somebody else. Anybody, as long as they had a body and a pulse rate. You would think with forty kids running amok on an uncharted island, it wouldn't be all that hard to come across just one.

The thing that sucked most was, he was prepared for a fight too. What Kurt meant was, he understood the whole running and staying out of sight thing, and that would have been great if he had been one of the weaker contestants, who got crappy weapons in the draw, like, a box of crayons or a milk jug, or, well, you got the idea. And Kurt Vogel's just not that guy, you know? He was as brawny as they came, with a musculature that threatened even the bronzed bodybuilding fanatics he would occasionally run into at the gym. Years of experience in gang fighting had given him superior reflexes and a penchant for a knee to groin strike. And least of all his weapon, a SIG-Sauer P226 pistol that did nothing to hurt his chances.

Just one opponent, that's all he's asking for, a fight to the death with anybody who happened to clamber by...

_Trod._

Hearing the soft noise, Kurt whirled around with his pistol held high as he found himself face to face with a tiny cluster of kitten fur. With an extended paw, the kitten mewled contently as it licked at a dried patch of Bonnie's blood on the foliage-covered soil. Kinda gross, but also kinda surreal. Is that really a baby cat? There's got to be a whole nest of them, maybe there's a family of house pets left behind somewhere.

Just a harmless animal. And yet...

A strange sensation stippled his skin, and Kurt quickly dodged to the side as a girl with long blonde hair whipping behind her leapt at him. She carried a curved knife in her right hand, and it was with the blade that she lashed out at his hand. She was so fast that Kurt did not have the time the react. The knife sliced in near the base of his thumb, severing nerves and tendons and rendering his hand effectively useless for the rest of the game. Thoroughly stunned, Kurt stood by dumbstruck as the girl wrestled the pistol from his injured hand and trained it on him.

"Don't move a muscle, meathead," Jessica Fondacaro, a.k.a. Girl #8, said without much humor in her voice.

Kurt couldn't if he wanted to. He was only vaguely aware that his right hand was bleeding pretty heavily, and though he was not aware of the extent of his injuries, that could not have been a good sign. All he know was that the blonde bitch jumped him, she took his gun, and now she was trying to kill him. Well, that wasn't entirely true. If she had been trying to kill him, she would have simply shot him instead of hovering around. Which meant there must have been an ulterior motive...

Either way, the fact that she was hesitant to kill him right away gave Kurt a slight edge. She had surprised him, but it was his turn now.

The silly bitch kept the gun trained on his head, unaware of how easily he could diffuse her threat. He fell onto his back, swinging up a leg that intended to catch her wrist and disarm her. Instead, he kicked her square in the gut with all his might, knocking her to the ground and stunning her. With the kind of power that Kurt had behind the kick, it was all Jessica could do to lie weakly in the grass. Using his good arm to propel himself back up, Kurt approached the girl. _Bitch cut me, fuck! Well, you got what you were hoping for, at least..._

Gathering up all his energy, Kurt made to crush Jessica's gun bearing hand beneath his heel.

A meaty crack resonated in the woods as Chet Donovan, a.k.a. Boy #22, revealed himself to be behind Kurt. He had swung his sledgehammer in a massive arc, slamming the heavy weapon on Kurt's ankle and reducing much of the bone and flesh to mush. Screaming in excruciating pain, Kurt rolled around to face his attacker and saw Chet slam the end of the sledgehammer down onto his chest. The strike was intended to restrain and not to kill, merely keeping the other boy pinned as Chet turned his attention to his girlfriend.

"You okay there, babe?" he asked with a note of worry.

"Son of a bitch kicked me in the gut," Jessica gasped in pain, "hurts like I can't believe, Jesus Christ, but I'll live."

Getting to her feet as she regarded the downed boy sourly, Jessica asked, "Why haven't you killed him yet?"

"I thought you might get a kick out of it," Chet said jovially, "and because we still need a guinea pig. Neither of us know very well how capable our weapons are, I mean we know that blade of yours is pretty sharp and the sledgehammer's got what it takes to crush a guy's foot, but this way we know how effective they are against a real human being. And besides, those people editing this game are gonna want us to be real sick sons of bitches when it comes to killing, and it's gotta be more fun this way than killing him outright."

Jessica directed a distrustful glance at her boyfriend. She didn't think it was a good idea to leave him alive for one second longer than she had to. Hell, look at what had just happened, she hesitated and the bastard kicked her square in the stomach. He would have killed her too, if Chet hadn't been here. No, definitely no, if it was up to Jessica, she would have put a bullet through his brain, right here, right now. But Chet had a point, she thought her hunting knife was sharp enough to slice his fingers clean off and she had barely lopped off his thumb. Plus, she did like the idea of being a Battle Royale star...

"Motherfucker," she snarled as she slid the blade in between Kurt's lips. Chet watched idly with some amusement as his girlfriend worked methodically, sawing the edge of her blade until she slitted the edges of Kurt's lips.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, man," Kurt said pitifully as he looked to Chet, his words distorted as Jessica admired her handiwork. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, you can't be serious, oh god, I'm sorry, man, Jesus!"

Jessica smiled nastily as she reached out to take the sledgehammer from Chet. He let her do so, in turn taking the SIG-Sauer from Jessica's hand and keeping the weapon aimed at Kurt. With a steadfast look, Chet said, "No more funny moves, my man. Do anything and I guarantee you I shoot your fucking balls off."

Kurt sighed in relief as the heavy weight was removed from his chest, allowing him to finally take a deep breath. Sparks flew in front of his eyes as he finally got a good bearing on who his attackers were. Chet and Jessica, of course it was them. Him, he knew personally; her, he did not. Chet was a player on the football team, and one of the guys whose parties he regularly attended. Great sense of humor, kind of dim, kind of a suck up, but never somebody worthy to be contended with before now. Jessica was a cheerleader and thusly by definition a slut, that was the only thing he knew of her. Nice tits and ass though.

"You ever heard of a Chelsea smile?" Jessica asked menacingly as she rotated the sledgehammer in her hands. Kurt's eyes widened in fear. _No way..._

Stepping one foot out of a flat-bottomed shoe, she placed it gently over Chet's groin. Instead of grounding down as he had terrifyingly expected, she moved her foot in light motions over the flesh beneath in an almost tantalizing manner. Against all seeming possibility, Kurt felt an inkling of arousal creep upon him. _No way, man, just, just no way..._

"In case you haven't, and for Chet's benefit," she said as she turned to her slightly dim-witted boyfriend, "and also any of our audience at home who can't be assed to look it up online, it's a torture technique mostly used in prison. First, slicing open the lip structure at the edge of the victim's mouth, just enough so it would rip open when the victim screams. And then..."

Leaning down and placing a hand over Kurt's groin, Jessica fondled the hardness that had formed beneath the denim. It was all she could do not to smile at that.

"Heads up, try not to scream too loud," she said as she swung the weapon with great force, pounding the block of wood into the downed boy's groin.

Try as he might, the boy couldn't hold the scream in.

* * *

Donna Harlow, a.k.a. Girl #23 was normally a rather attractive girl, and even the toll of the Battle Royale could not have taken any beauty out of her. Her tresses of dirty blonde hair were coiled and pinned up high, a few strands and coils loose from all the running she had to do in the past several hours. Her lips painted a dark red color that matched her long fingernails. A pen tucked away behind her left ear so she could drop down anything important, only now that concerned mostly the other contestants she had come across rather than anything to do with the school newsletter or the werewolf novel she had been working on for the better part of the school year.

It was with this pen that she was now scrawling on a notepad. _Julianne_, she wrote in cursive letters, and drew a heart around the name. Neatly tearing the sheet from the pad, she held it up in the coastal wind for a second before letting it slip from her fingers. The note drifted out towards the sea as Donna looked away wistfully.

Julianne was Julianne Morris, a girl from the gay-straight alliance at school. For the longest time she had been closeted and miserable until she met Donna, a proud bisexual, at the first meeting she attended. The two girls had become close friends immediately. Aware that there was definite mutual attraction going on, they took a dive and agreed to date each other publicly. There was some backlash, definitely some ridicule, but for the most part they could look over that. Donna was head over heels in love, and Julianne, well... Julianne was taking small steps.

At least Julianne wasn't part of this hellish game. Donna honestly didn't know how she would handle if her lover were here as well. _Suicide, probably. Won't have the heart to tag team, knowing that betrayal is always imminent. Definitely not what you're planning to do now..._

She had paid attention to the orientation video. Only the beach zones would remain inactive in the final hours of the game. As it turned out, only three of the zones on the island were occupied by the resort's beach area. She had headed over with great speed, running until it seemed like her legs would unhinge and fall off. Fairly certain that she was the first to arrive, she had found one of the beach houses and taken residence there. It was an advantageous spot that allowed her to see anybody approaching. As long as she kept her guard up, she would do okay. She wouldn't even have to haul ass come endgame, she was already situated in a safe place where her collar wouldn't detonate. And once the few remaining contestants arrived...

Donna didn't like to do this, but she told herself she didn't have a choice. It was either this or die at the hands of a serial murderer. Kill or be killed.

Her assigned weapon was a Heckler & Koch UMP45 submachine gun, a heavy chunk of metal that she had no idea how to operate. She would have to learn in due course, but she had all the time in the world to do so. Well, three days, in actuality, but it seemed like all the time in the world.

So once it came down to the final six hours, and everybody started being herded to the same places... it would all be over real quick. It was a simple and effective strategy. Time and again she had seen it repeated in the Battle Royale reruns that her brother Leland watched on Saturday nights. It had to be effective, right? Why else would all those people from the other seasons try out the same thing over and over?

Right. So that was her plan. Would it allow her to win? Theoretically, yes, but Donna wasn't stupid. Odds were that something would go wrong, and she'd end up strangled or shot full of holes or had her arm ripped off. Odds were that she would die. _I mean, one in fifty is a pretty poor likelihood, you gotta admit that. Well, one in forty-one now._

Looking at the notepad in her hands, Donna scrawled out another note: _THIS is what happens when you let Big Brother win_, and stuck it on a wall opposite a surveillance camera. _Something to think about while you all sit safely at home and watch us die in horrible ways._

On a third piece of notepad paper, she wrote, _Mom, Dad, hope this gets back to you somehow. I love you both._

Folding that last note and placing it in her pocket, Donna decided that she had done enough inane shit for the time being. _Yeah, the note thing was kind of helpful with the whole catharsis thing at first, but right now? Makes you seem kind of crazy, and not in the good way. Look, maybe you just need something else to focus on. Something to keep your head collected. A project... maybe like fortifying the house?_

She thought about it, but quickly dismissed the thought. The door was locked tightly enough, the windows secured, and she stayed mostly in the upper levels of the house where her view and scope of gunfire would give her the clear upper edge. There was no point in putting in any unnecessary exertion. Besides, if something _did_ happen, she'd want a clear path out of here as quickly as possible...

Instead, Donna flipped open the manual that came with her UMP45 submachine gun. It's no King novel, but she didn't have a whole lot of choices out here.

* * *

They had pondered over the contestant list for the longest time before coming down to the decision. They wanted only people they could trust unconditionally. Just their closest friends and confidantes, people who would definitely not be trying to play the game out here. It would be immensely dangerous if they tried to bring a madman into their circle. So no killers, no backstabbers, no anybody who they had even the slightest inkling of doubt about. That was the way it was gonna go.

What complicated the matter was that they each had only five allotted texts in their assigned phones. Saving one text for emergency purposes, they had eight chances to bring in somebody. Eight risks they had to take.

So, this was what it came down to:

Girl #4, a.k.a. Phoebe Lascano.

Boy #5, a.k.a. Nicholas Dillon.

Boy #16, a.k.a. Frank Greer.

Boy #17, a.k.a. Hank Norton.

Girl #20, a.k.a. Joanne Halperin.

Boy #21, a.k.a. Elijah Ricks.

Girl #23, a.k.a. Donna Harlow.

Girl #24, a.k.a. Alyssa Easton.

Whipping out their respective mobile phones, Micah Webster, a.k.a. Boy #6, and Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #16 began sending out text messages. Despite her reservations, despite her doubts, despite the sheer impossibility of what they hoped to accomplish... _Let's just hope this won't be the last mistake we're going to make in our lives._


	18. Hour 13: 41 Contestants Remaining

**Author's Note**: Hey guys. I felt I owed any readers of the story an explanation of some sort, given the bout of inactivity and the inconsistencies in chapter updates. Real life has the bizarre tendency to get in the way, especially given that college has become increasingly taxing. Hopefully, it should be getting back on track now. During the period of absence, I had revised over some of the major and minor details of the plot, worked out a couple of kinks and found others that were impossible to redo. Some of the characters' roles were cut down, others were boosted to unforeseen importance, but I guess you'll have to stay put to see how it turns out.

Some of you might notice that the previously published Intermission chapter has been removed. While working to revise the storyline, I came across several issues, stylistic and plot-wise, that just bugged me enough that I couldn't let it pass by. Eventually I just decided to cut out this part of the story and leave it as a stand alone Battle Royale, but I'm hoping that whatever happens in lieu of the original plan will be just as good, if not better, than what you guys expect.

Finally, I would like to just thank anybody still sticking with the story after it's been on the backburner for so long, as well as any new readers joining us. Know that I greatly appreciate every view and, at the risk of sounding piteous, appreciate feedback even more.

Now, on with the story...

* * *

**Hour 13**

**41 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

Frank Greer, a.k.a. Boy #16, had to admit that he had some issues with being in control. It was a nightmare not knowing where things were headed, and that was the thing about the Battle Royale that scared him more than anything else. The only thing he knew with any level of certainty was that he was going to die, because the odds were simply too steep to even consider. He didn't know how he was going to die, but there was no question that it would be coming for him. Death by gunfire, death by blunt force, death by electrocution.

What he simply never expected, was death by two cheerleaders.

The dynamic duo of Nicole Reiniger, a.k.a. Girl #14, and Holly Richmond, a.k.a. Girl #15, were unbearable enough normally. Nicole was a reasonably pretty girl who had simply adapted the cheerleader lifestyle to fit in, while her best friend Holly was a wild card that nobody expected would become a cheerleader. Holly was a religious nut through and through, holding onto her faith with an almost fanatical conviction. That she would join the Sierra Mist girls was just about the last thing anybody would expect. True to their clique, the two girls quickly became massive bitches, joining their queen bee Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, in ruling the school's masses.

Normally they were bad enough. Put a gun in each of their hands, and Frank was just about willing to kill himself, if only to escape the predicament he was in. More than once he had wanted to run away, leave them behind and not bother trying to get his gun back, but that would have been akin to suicide. He didn't know how exactly, but one way or another, these two girls would be the death of him.

"Your phone's buzzing," Holly said nervously, as she jabbed his pack with her pistol.

"Oh?" Frank replied dully.

"Yeah, I think you're getting a text," Holly said. "Want me to read it for you?"

"That'd be lovely, seeing how I'm a bit tied up at the moment," Frank said as he raised his bound hands. After his brief stint in trying to intimidate the girls only to end up taking a pratfall, Nicole had deemed him a present danger and had tied his wrists together with a rope. Frank thought it would be easy to loosen at first, but it turned out that Nicole had really put the skills she picked up from girl scouts to good use.

Reaching over to his pack, Holly unzipped the side pocket and pulled out Frank's assigned phone. It was still vibrating, and the screen was lit up. One new message. She clicked it open and read it.

"It's Jolene," she said quizzically.

"What does it say?" Frank asked with a bit of interest as he leaned over to read the message over Holly's shoulder.

"That she wants you to come to one of the cabins in the woods because... she's got an escape plan!" Holly said excitedly. "Oh my gosh! Can you believe it, she's really, she says she's got a way out of here! Out of this thing! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, this is great!"

"Is it really, now," Frank mused rhetorically.

The thing was, it all seemed a bit too good to be true. It wasn't like there hadn't been some attempt to seek escape in every season of the Battle Royale program thus far; none of those had ever come close to fruition. Inevitably, the revolutionaries would get killed before they could do anything substantial, and almost never by collar detonation. Either one of the frontrunners would come across them, or one of the group would turn their back of the others and go out in a gun-blazing glory. It would be pointless trying to team up, much less attempt to fight those in charge, right? Those were the statistics. It would never work, no, if the guys behind the scenes had anything to say about it, escape would be impossible. And besides, there was always the chance that this message was a sham. There was the chance that Jolene only wanted people to come over so she could snipe them one by one. There was the chance that somebody had killed her and was trying to trick him into coming. There was the chance that it's all a ruse...

_No_, he decided, _there's too much at risk here. It's simply too dangerous to throw caution to the wind in a Battle Royale. No, no, definitely not a good idea to head out there. Even if it's Jolene that's asking you... sorry sweetheart, it's safer for me if I stay alive. Good luck with everything._

"Yeah, of course it's great!" Holly gushed. "If we get out of here, we can go home to our families, and, and we won't have to kill each other! Oh my gosh, this is amazing, don't you see?"

"We're not going though, are we?" Frank said doubtfully. "You can't seriously be thinking this is a good idea."

"But why not? Do you not want to get out of here?" Holly asked emphatically. "You know what this means, right? We won't have to kill anybody if this works!"

"_If_ it works," Frank said. "That's a big if, I hope you know that. More than likely this won't work out at all, we'll all die when somebody goes too far and pisses off the guys in charge, and we all end up missing chunks out of our necks because the _explosives_ they use to control us go boom. Let's face it, there's no getting out of this. And even if we do escape, do you really think you'll get to go home? The best you could hope for is an incredibly difficult life in some third world nation where you hide from the authorities until you end up discovered, captured, and executed all in one go. And that's only _if_ you manage to escape. _If_ does nobody any good."

Holly looked stung at his tirade, her mouth sagging lower and lower. She finally relented, "I never... I guess I never thought about it that way, but... hope's a good thing to have, right? Anything's got to be better than... than... you know. Killing our friends, or being killed."

She looked away, blinking away the moisture in her eyes, just as Nicole came out of the public lavatory. She was wiping her hands with a paper towel, unaware of what her friend and the captive had been reading from the screen of the mobile phone. Curious, Nicole came over and took a seat next to them, asking, "So, tell me. What did I miss while I was gone?"

In lieu of replying, Holly simply twisted the mobile phone in her direction, letting her read for herself. As Nicole deciphered the text, her eyes slowly widened with surprise.

"But... but this is amazing! This really is! Let's go over there, see if they'll let us opt in!" Nicole said with immense excitement. "We're gonna get off of this island! We're gonna find some way out, this really is happening, we're gonna escape from here!"

"Yeah... Frank here doesn't think it's gonna happen though," Holly said as she brushed a tear from her eye.

"Wh- What? But I don't understand, why does, I mean, why?" Nicole exclaimed.

"Because it's just an unnecessary danger," Frank said wearily, "and quite frankly a pointless risk. I don't know exactly what's gonna happen, but I can tell you that nothing's going to come out of this. Best case scenario, we team up with a bunch of people we can't trust, make it to the second day before somebody snaps and guns down everybody else. More likely, Jolene will be waiting there with a big gun and shoot everybody who comes to her. This isn't a good idea, please trust me on this."

"Isn't Jolene your friend?" Holly asked pointedly.

"Yeah, but this is different, trusting the wrong person could cost us our lives," Frank answered with some level of exasperation. "Look, I don't think you understand that this isn't fun and games, this is life and death we're talking about."

"No, I think _you_ don't understand," Nicole said staunchly with a jab of her shotgun. "You're coming with us."

Frank glared at the redhead with great intensity. "What the hell do you mean?"

"In case you've forgotten, we've kind of got a little hostage situation going on here," Nicole said waveringly, "after you tried to kill the two of us. So as long as we're holding the guns, we get to call the shots. And I'm saying that we've got to go check this out at least."

"You can't be serious," Frank exclaimed. "Did you not hear a thing I just said? We could die out there!"

"We could die just sitting here," Nicole said, "and I'd much rather take a chance to see if we could meet with a few people. Who knows, if things work out we might even find some way out, that would be great, wouldn't it? I mean, I know there's not a very great chance that this is going to happen, but just think what if against all odds, this does turn out to be our ticket out of here? I'm not letting go of that."

"I guess I don't have much of a choice then, do I?" Frank said calmly.

"No, you don't," Nicole replied as she shouldered her pack and motioned for Holly to do the same. "I'm sorry, but you really don't. Now come along, we're gonna do this."

* * *

The boy was a simpleton. That had been his nickname for the longest time, and Caleb resented it with every shred of his existence. Admittedly, intelligence was not an attribute he was blessed with, but damn it if he couldn't get by on sheer brutality alone. That was the way things worked, he had quickly learned. The strong survive. Not the smart, the strong. If you had power over another person, you could make them do pretty much anything you wanted. Time and again he had seen clients, drug dealers, ex-cons and gang members treat his mother like a heavily abused rag doll, something to be toyed with. He had seen these people who were every bit as ugly and unintelligent and caustic as the people you wouldn't want to know. He had seen how they exerted power around the town.

It didn't matter what lengths he had to go to. He didn't need to have smarts, all he needed was dominance. He had to be strong. He had to be brutal. And above all, he had to be dominant. And it had worked out well. Nobody in their sane minds would soberly provoke close to three hundred pounds of pure muscle with an incredibly short fuse.

All the cash, the grades he didn't have to work for, the spot on the varsity team, all the pussy thrown at his feet like dead fish... all that was simply the bonus on the topping.

Quite possibly, he was the only person in the Battle Royale who had completely disregarded the gravity of the situation he was in. Some would say (behind his back of course, nobody said anything about Caleb publically unless they wanted to be shitting teeth), he didn't have the brainpower to understand what kind of situation he was in, but Caleb knew it was because he had been preparing for this his entire life. Not that he had been training for the Battle Royale specifically, but he knew what it took to win, and he had what it took to win.

Dominance.

Still, the boy had to admit that thinking was not his strongest suit, and so the more strategic elements of the game eluded him. He cared nothing for the details, like where people would be hiding... or the importance of staying in cover... or even the possibility that somebody else could be trying to kill him. All he knew was that if he roamed the island and slaughtered everybody he came across, in time he would emerge as the winner. The idea of losing the game had never even entered his mind.

For Caleb Kennedy, a.k.a. Boy #25, losing was not an option.

The thing was, well, things didn't seem to be going his way. He had run into Sophie but had let her get away, and after that he did manage to kill that runner girl Paige, but since then... nothing. He hadn't seen anybody around, and that meant other people were killing the rest of the kids. All the names he heard on the announcements, only one of those kills was attributed to him. Other people were wrestling for dominance too... and that pissed him off more than all else. This was his game, damn it. How dare anybody else come in and try to take what was rightfully his?

Daphne. That worthless cunt. She had defied him, took a couple potshots at him and fled, and if the morning report was anything to go by, had even gone on to kill off some other dude. He was sure that in due course, he would find that cunt and he would make her pay. He would restrain her, rape her, defile her, stretch out her cunt with his fists, cut her limbs off and string her up by the neck. He would make her wish she was dead, and then he would kill her.

But that wasn't the only thing he would do. All these other people running around, avoiding him and offing each other instead, those people would also pay. Bastards and bitches, all of them, they deserve nothing more than a violent death. Kill 'em all, ain't that the idea of the game?

A piercing crack, something like a gunshot, reverberating in the air for a long moment. This one was different from all the others, this one sounded real near. This one sounded like it came from inside one of the buildings lining the avenue. Maybe the cottages, or the greengrocer with the plastic vegetables lining the front. Maybe the church. Maybe the butcher's house. So many hiding places where a cunt-burrowing mouse could be lurking. Maybe even the cuntiest of all, Daphne, queen of the cunts. _Yeah, that sounds about right. It's time for you to step it up, my man._

Seconds later, another shot came. Caleb grinned with the ferocity of a madman. Raising his ax overhead, he charged down the avenue in search of his next prey.

* * *

"Alright, awesome, will come over as soon as I can... and... send," murmured Nicholas Dillon, a.k.a. Boy #5, as he finished typing out his reply on his assigned mobile phone. Cramming his phone back into the pocket of his Letterman jacket, he beckoned his traveling partner to come along. Noticing that she had stopped walking and was instead leaning on an oak tree, he turned back to her.

"What now?" he asked, not without some exasperation.

"You sure they'll be okay with me being there?" Marla Thompson, a.k.a. Girl #18, asked uneasily. "I mean, I've killed. You heard that Julie Winnfield, she said so herself in the death report. I'm a killer. I killed a kid who's in the same class as I am. I've given in to the game. I mean, I can't seriously go with you now, they won't trust me, will they?"

"If you listen to yourself, you'll see how unreasonable you're being," Nicholas said with a slight roll of his eyes. "Like I said, it's fine, they're not gonna have a problem with you. You killed in self defense, and the guy you killed was a murderer who had it coming."

"Don't say that," Marla whispered as she shivered. "None of us deserve to be in this situation. Nobody deserves to be in this game."

"You're right. I'm sorry," Nicholas conceded. "I'm just saying, it's a good thing you stopped him before he killed... anybody else. And as horrible as this sounds, there are going to be many more killers out there, I'm certain of that, so it'd be a good idea to have somebody capable on our side. And... well, you've proven yourself capable, and it goes without saying that you're not trying to kill anybody else, so of course you'd be welcome."

"I guess so," she said doubtfully.

Looking to her friend, Marla added, "That's not the only reason, is it?"

"Come again?" he answered quizzically.

"You said all that stuff about me being capable of self defense, and I guess I'm a pretty good shot so that's somewhat true, but... is that the only reason you're sticking around? Because I'm good at defending myself?" Marla said with a slightly distorted smile.

"Don't be deliberately dense," Nicholas said, a little annoyed. "You know the reason I'm here with you. We're best friends to the end, remember? Look, I know things haven't been great between us lately, but I'm willing to get past that now. Come on, you know that's not really the point here. Let's just focus on staying alive, and if we get out of here we'll deal with our issues then, okay?"

"Sounds good to me," Marla replied with a forced smile. "Sorry about that, I'm all set now. Hey, ho, let's go, and all that, right?"

Taking off with a bit of a run, Marla sped forward and overtook Nicholas, causing the boy to yelp with some surprise. She had done so to prevent him from seeing the moisture that was beginning to well in her eyes. Nicholas was a great guy, incredibly sweet and sensitive most of the time, but when it came to the question of _them_ he could be so unbelievably _dumb_.

"Hey, wait up!" Nicholas shouted, sprinting after the girl.

The wind came against her face as she ran wildly. She didn't have the map, she didn't know which way to go, but she knew the cabin had to be somewhere nearby. They were fortunate to be near the appointed meet up location as Micah had written in his message. Just a short distance from here, fifteen minutes, maybe twenty tops. Somewhere near the southwest of the amusement park, there were a cluster of vacation cabins for visitors and tourists to rent. One of those places would serve as their base, according to Micah.

Looking around as she ran, Marla caught sight of two other individuals bobbing around the woodland foliage. A boy and a girl, if she had to judge by their heights. With a hitch of her breath, Marla stopped dead in her tracks and peered out from behind a tree.

Unaware, Nicholas caught up to the girl a little out of breath. "What the hell, Marla?"

She hushed him, speaking in a low whisper, "Look, over there, other people!"

Peering out from behind a veil of leaves and assorted twigs, Nicholas could see that Marla's observation was indeed accurate. Although they couldn't recognize the guy from behind, the girl's identity was unmistakable. She was a tiny, dark girl wearing a beret concealing her almost completely shaved head. Marla was surprised to see that she was with this mysterious guy rather than with any of her own friends, but in any event she was rather glad to see Alicia Kerr, a.k.a. Girl #21.

Marla spoke quietly, "Should we let them know about..."

"No," Nicholas replied firmly, "I don't know either of them that well. We probably shouldn't let anybody else in on this, I mean I'm already taking a risk bringing you along."

"Alicia's a good person," she argued, "and she's very smart too, I'm sure Micah could use her help."

"I said no, okay? Just drop it," Nicholas said with a tone that indicated the conversation was over.

He might have spoken a bit too loudly, for both Alicia and Elijah Ricks, a.k.a. Boy #21, turned around at that exact moment. Seeing the pair with an expression of surprise, Alicia excitedly bound up to them before Nicholas could even whip out the Walther P99 pistol he had taken from Marla. The girl seemed exceptionally excited to see another pair of competitors in the Battle Royale, while Elijah simply regarded the newcomers with a look of suspicion as he balanced a metal baseball bat on his shoulder.

"Hey guys, so great to see you here!" Alicia chirped as she held a mobile phone in her hands.

"Likewise," Marla said, slightly taken aback, "what've you been up to?"

"Jolene's trying to get a group of us together, and she says we might be able to find a way out of this mess," Alicia answered smartly, "do you two wanna come with?"

Nicholas smiled weakly as he held up his own phone, displaying Micah's similar message on its glowing screen. "We're already there."

* * *

"So you see, it's actually not as complicated as what it says in the gun manual. I mean, it takes a bit of practice to get used to the recoil, and probably more time than we have on our hands if you want to hit a target on a regular basis. But this is good, this is good, you see, if anything happens then we'll know how to defend ourselves," Joanne Halperin, a.k.a. Girl #20, said with an incredibly broad smile. All things considered, she was in unreasonably high spirits. On some level, this was a façade she had put up in an attempt to enliven the other girl, but there was a part of her that was genuinely glad for some reason.

That reason may or may not be Phoebe Lascano, a.k.a. Girl #4, who looked just about as nervous as a small, furry mammal. It was clear to Joanne that the girl was trying her best to hold the tears in, and even right now seemed like a draft of wind could knock her over.

They had mulled over their earlier experiences in the game over hot tea, and for a while it seemed that Phoebe might be returning to a normal state of mind. She was able to make conversation, she could even unclench her fingers around the handle of the sauté pan, her assigned weapon. Joanne had found a deck of cards in the back room of the small cathedral, and they had played Go Fish for about half an hour. The noontime announcement though, that put Phoebe right back into that nerve-wracking zone again. Tense and jittery, she wouldn't go anywhere without the sauté pan (_like that would help if somebody's trying to kill us_), and stayed far away from the stained glass windows as though sunlight would cause her to incinerate.

Getting the girl to watch her demonstrate the usage of her firearm was a major victory on Joanne's part. She had simply let Phoebe know that they would have to catch some sleep sooner or later. If they were to stand guard and trade shifts, then Phoebe would have to learn how to use the Walther PPK pistol. Otherwise, they might as well have unlocked the doors and left them wide open, because not knowing how to defend themselves might as well be equivalent to handing over their decapitated heads on a silver platter.

Walking over to where their packs had been dumped on the front row of pews, Joanne pulled out one of the water bottles and drank thirstily. _We're going to run out of water soon, food too, gotta find another source. Nothing to worry about right now, but if you survive into the third day... maybe it's not a bad idea to head out, find one of the restaurants and bring back everything edible or potable._

Twisting the cap and making to stuff the plastic bottle back into her pack, Joanne noticed something. "Hey, Phoebe, look! We're getting messages on our phones, both of us, looks like somebody's looking for us. Wonder what they want?"

"Let me see that," Phoebe whispered as she grabbed her phone from Joanne.

Joanne flipped her own assigned mobile phone open, clicking open the message and reading it. _Micah Webster... what does he want, I wonder._

Her eyes had barely scanned past the words _escape attempt_ when something impacted against the front door with a splintering noise. With a high-pitched squeak, Phoebe jumped back and frightfully tossed her phone down the aisle. The handheld device exploded in a shower of plastic and sparks against the stone paved floor, immediately out of commission. _Cheap pricks won't even give us a durable phone? I mean come on, this isn't exactly an advertisement for whatever mobile phone company is sponsoring the show._

Looking up, Joanne whipped out her pistol and leveled a shot at shoulder level. _Somebody's trying to get in, this isn't good. Hold on, it could still be a friendly face though, maybe Frank, maybe Jacky, but why would they try to break down the door? No, this is definitely going south, somebody means business._

She had only time to hear a high-pitched squeal as Phoebe dashed wildly to her side, the sauté pan raised overhead. Being that she was as tiny as a girl could get, Phoebe looked about as menacing as the gas-operated hotplate they had used to make tea. Not that Joanne herself wasn't completely terrified, she was still praying madly that whoever it was would realize the doors were stone walls, give up halfway through, and go after some other unfortunate soul...

No such luck. Heavy as it was, the doors were not equipped to take repeated strikes from a fire ax, especially when an adrenalized hulk is wielding said ax. It gave way rather weakly, pieces of wood falling apart as the ax broke through. With two more strikes, the wooden bar that held the doors close splintered and fell to the floor in two halves; on the next, the doors simply swung open with great force, welcoming the terrifyingly bloodied giant into the cathedral.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Joanne couldn't help but shriek as she let loose, squeezing shot after shot out of her pistol. Wood and stone fragments flew every which way as all of her shots went wild.

The black giant paid little attention to the potentially fatal bullets that whizzed every which way. Instead, he raised his ax and charged wildly down the aisle at the two girls. Joanne's thoughts of _reload, reload_ quickly became nothing but sheer terror. Every fiber of her being tensed, awaiting the swipe of the ax that would crack open her ribcage and steal her life.

"Come on!" Phoebe shrieked urgently as she pulled the heavier girl to her feet. The two staggered wildly toward the back room as Caleb brought the ax down heavily, cleaving through both of their duffel bags and destroying much of the supplies that they had stashed inside. With the kind of force behind the strike, the ax head had cleaved into the stone floor and had gotten temporarily stuck.

Stumbling against the wall, Joanne found herself empty-handed; she had accidentally dropped the gun at Caleb's feet. Not that the man could notice, all he saw was the red glow of bloodlust.

"Shoot him shoot him shoot him!" Phoebe cried frightfully.

"I can't! I dropped it, I dropped the gun god damn it!" Joanne screamed.

Finally pulling free the massive ax, Caleb wielded it overhead as he turned to face the terrified girls. Lashing out with a powerful kick, he sent a splintering pew slamming into Joanne's mid-section, knocking the wind out of her lungs and trapping her against the stone wall. Faster to react and considerably more agile, Phoebe was able to dash off, casting terrified glances behind her. Caleb paid the blonde girl no heed, he saw only the victim in front of him. That obese bitch. Surprisingly, despite his usual lack of attention to less attractive girls, Caleb found that he recognized her. She was a member of Daphne's posse, one of those feminist girls who wasted time screaming pussy slogans at protests.

If this were any other girl, Caleb would have simply lopped their vapid head off with a swipe of the ax. But this girl... she was one of the worst. She was one of those cunts, she was one of them, and Caleb knew plentifully what that meant. She had to be punished for her insubordination. And... well, a hole was a hole was a hole.

"Please don't, please don't do this," Joanne pleaded as she looked to the massive boy with pitiful eyes.

Caleb didn't even bother replying, instead simply slapping a massive palm over her mouth and silencing her. Joanne fought for breath as she struggled weakly, a thin slosh of blood and mucus trickling from her nostrils. For a moment, she looked to his eyes and thought she had seen pure evilness. _Isn't that ironic, the embodiment of evil in a cathedral._

Tossing the ax to the side, Caleb wrapped his massive hands around her neck. He felt her pulse beneath his fingers, the rise and fall of her frightful breaths. With sadistic glee, he squeezed with all his might. Joanne's eyes widened for a second before her neck broke with an audible snap. Though he had wanted her to suffer, his incredible strength had bestowed upon the girl an incredibly quick death, so quick that she barely even heard her spinal cord shatter before the great darkness descended. One moment, she was breathing in the rich scent of blood off his blood-stained clothes, the next moment... nothing.

Unaware of her death, Caleb quickly unzipped the front of his pants with one hand and coaxed himself to full hardness. Ripping at the front of Joanne's jeans, he tore open the zipper and made to thrust inside the warm body. Had she still been able to, Joanne probably would have screamed, but her being dead made the ordeal relatively simple.

And then... _CRACK!_

"Get off her, you jackass!" Phoebe shrieked in a slightly nasal voice as she wielded Joanne's Walther PPK. Having picked it up and reloaded it as though her life depended on it (and in all fairness, it did), she courageously stepped up to defend her friend.

She had never handled the gun before and was irrationally proud when she saw a small red hole appear in the back of his thigh. The kickback of the pistol was greater than she expected, nearly tearing her arm out of its socket, but she held strong. Running up and preparing the next shot, she slid the muzzle up against the base of his skull.

"Get out of here, you freak!" she shrieked as she pulled the trigger.

Phoebe had expected the shot to dig a bloody tunnel through Caleb's skull. She was tremendously surprised when the upper part of his head exploded outward, spraying chunks of gore every which way. Blood splattered across her face, into her mouth, on her glasses. Blinking with stunned surprise, she realized she could see minuscule red particles suspended in the air that used to be the upper part of Caleb's skull. For another half second he remained standing; then he crumpled to the floor in a bloody heap.

Behind him, Joanne slumped lifelessly to the floor. With immense fright and the slightest bit of pride, Phoebe wiped the blood from her glasses and waited for her friend to get up. They had took the monster head on, and they had won. She had destroyed his head with Joanne's weapon, while Joanne had distracted him. This was a joint effort, like those fantasy novels she read as a child, where one of the heroes would feign being dead to trick the beast into walking over the trap. The rest of the heroes would then pounce upon the beast, bringing together swords and hammers and crossbows to vanquish the monster.

They had done that... right? She could see that, the man was missing the top half of his head for god's sake, he's got to be dead. But Joanne still hadn't gotten back up.

"Hey, Joanne, things are all okay now, I took care of him," she said in an incredibly high-pitched voice as she squatted next to Joanne's body and nudged her head. "We won. It's okay now, it's over, you don't have to play...

"...dead."


	19. Hour 14: 39 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 14**

**39 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

If there was one skill that had completely eluded the girl, it was the skill to properly pack for traveling. Though she was normally an organizational wizard – a skill that had served her tremendously in her stint as the secretary of the student council – she simply had no idea how to pack a bag. She would either forget some component of the essentials, or find that she did not have enough space in her suitcase to bring along everything she needed. It was something that she had gotten used to with mild exasperation, but Alyssa Easton, a.k.a. Girl #24, never expected it would come back to haunt her in the Battle Royale.

"Okay, I think – I _think_ – I've got everything I need in here," she said hesitantly as she shouldered the olive drab duffel sack. _Food, water, map, compass, torch, phone, gun and ammo, not to mention enough booze to drown a horse, think you got everything?_

Pecking the other girl on the cheek in a sign of affection, Alyssa added, "Promise me you'll stay safe, sweetheart, okay?"

Not less than two hours ago, she had received a text message on her mobile phone. Allegedly sent from Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #16, the message was brief and succinct: it concerned Jolene's plan for their gang (_minus Gabby of course, she was lucky enough to not be included in the game_) to meet up in one of the southern woodland cabins. She had also mentioned something about the possibility of an escape solution with the help of Micah Webster, a.k.a. Boy #6 within the one hundred and forty character limit. Alyssa didn't have high hopes about the plan working, but she simply could not forego the chance to see three of her four closest friends again. Who knew, they might actually succeed in finding a loophole in the system against all realms of possibility.

It all seemed so perfect, at least as perfect as things could go in a Battle Royale. She would soon be reunited with her friends. They were going to come together and stand strong against the killers and monsters out there. With a great deal of luck, they could even become the new Wild Seven. The possibility scared and exhilarated her at the same time. _Being on the run, like criminals, like exiles, like terrorists... might be kind of cool if the movies are anything to go by._

The only imperfection that refused to fit into the scheme was Brooke Hilton, a.k.a. Girl #22. Ideally, Alyssa would have persuaded her friend to come along and join their efforts, but the blonde girl had turned him down from the get go. Brooke hadn't even bother to listen to her arguments, she had simply said that she didn't want to go with her and that was that. Despite her best efforts, Alyssa wasn't able to get her companion to co-operate.

Much as she hated to admit it, Alyssa wasn't going to miss out on this opportunity for a girl she barely knew. And so she had decided she would go alone.

At least they could say they ended things on great terms. Brooke completely understood Alyssa's desire to rejoin her friends, and Alyssa was sympathetic towards Brooke's predicament. It helped her understand why Brooke might not want to join her friends as well; it couldn't have been easy knowing that her only friend was dead while Alyssa's entire group was still safe and intact (_or alive at least, no telling what's happened to them_).

Well, it hadn't been completely easy for her either. Though Brooke did not seem to notice it, the announcements had taken a toll on Alyssa too. Namely, the death of Clara Bellucci, a.k.a. Girl #11. It wasn't just that the girl's death had affected her, but what Julie Winnfield said on the loudspeakers...

_Drake._

Her boyfriend.

It didn't take a genius to understand what had happened; he had decided to play the game. Drake Farrell, of all people, had decided to play the game. It had taken every restraint she had to not think about it too much, but at the same time it was impossible not to. Drake, her boyfriend, the sweetest guy she had ever known... How could he have done something so despicable? A part of her thought that maybe, just maybe, things weren't as they had seemed. There was the slightest chance that Drake had only killed in self defense. _Yeah, who's to say that Clara hadn't gone completely crazy and attacked him? Maybe he had only shot her because she had been trying to stab him with a screwdriver or something. And... he just so happened to dunk her head in a deep fryer. Uh huh, that's a possibility, isn't it?_

_Don't try to fool yourself, you know what happened, you know that Drake's probably one of the psychos running around out there, killing innocent girls like Clara and Gail and Nadine. He's gone nuts for some reason, or maybe it was there all along, so now he's completely lost it and he's just... _killing_ people out there._

Alyssa shook her head, hoping to clear away the inane thoughts occupying her mind. She knew it was best not to linger on that. Maybe eventually, when things got down to the final hours and Drake was still alive, maybe then they'll have to deal with him. But right now, the important thing was simply to survive. As long as she was still alive and kicking...

"So, I guess this is goodbye, huh," Alyssa said grimly.

"I guess so," Brooke slurred through an alcohol-induced haze. "Take care out there, okay? And if you do manage to get out of here, have a drink on me."

She raised her glass (currently holding a sizable portion of a White Russian) and downed it in one gulp. Not holding a drink of her own, Alyssa instead mimed holding a shot glass and tossing it back in one fluid motion. With affected elation, she chimed as she lowered her imaginary glass, "Bottoms up!"

"Likewise," Brooke smiled as she topped off her empty glass with freshly poured vodka. "I hope you know I'll probably end up shitfaced, well I'm already shitfaced but in any case, I think in a couple more hours I'll be so drunk that I'll end up playing Russian roulette against myself, so expect to hear my name blaring from the loudspeakers some time before tomorrow."

"You stay classy," Alyssa said good-naturedly, understanding what the other girl meant. Suicide and getting high were preferable options to Brooke, compared to what would most likely be an unbelievably brief lifetime out there in the jungle. She didn't blame her, if the circumstances were any different, Alyssa was sure she would have made the same decision.

"Good luck with everything," she added genuinely.

"You do the same," Brooke spoke with surprising clarity. "It's a dangerous world out there, so you best take really good care of yourself."

"I will," Alyssa replied simply as she took off.

Making her way around the convoluted hallways of the ninth floor of the Asbury Bay Hotel, Alyssa quickly found the stairway she and Brooke had come up when they first found the place. It was a long way down, but at least the stairwell was completely devoid of other people. Deciding that the stairs weren't going to get any shorter and that she had best gotten started if she wanted to make the meeting with any degree of punctuality, Alyssa bounded down.

As she ran, the thoughts in her head kept reappearing at random intervals. Things that she hadn't wanted to think about in the game. Things that she kept pushing to the back of her mind.

* * *

"_Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl,_" the aged radio blared out in the confines of Drake's basement game room, "_with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there._"

"Oh, I love this song," Alyssa commented as she comfortably leaned against her boyfriend in the beanbag chair they shared. Unlike most of their peers who had gone to the prom decked to the nines, they were currently dressed in nothing but the slackest of clothing. She was wearing an old nightshirt over a pair of leggings, while Drake was more than comfortable in only a T-shirt and boxers. One of the few couples who had decided to eschew the prom, they had decided to spend the night in each other's comfort.

"Oh yeah?" Drake replied with a flippant smirk.

"Absolutely," she said without missing a beat, "I mean, it's an upbeat disco song about how an ambitious woman's life goes down the gutter after her grassroots lover is murdered by a mafia boss, all sung in a celebratory tune of how falling in love will inevitably break your heart, how can you not like a song like that?"

"I dunno, isn't it kind of three decades too old for anybody our age to reasonably enjoy?" Drake mused.

"Haven't you heard? Music and passion are always the fashion," Alyssa quipped as she leaned into Drake some more. "And besides, one of the greatest actors to grace the screens did a pretty damn awesome cover of it, I think that officially puts it back on the radar if anybody's keeping count."

"Good point," Drake conceded.

"_They were young and they had each other, who could ask for more?_" the radio chimed. "_At the Copa..._"

As the song progressed to its repetitive chorus, Alyssa couldn't help but get into the song with more than a little enthusiasm. Getting up from the beanbag chair where she had been cuddling with her boyfriend while listening to some of the seventies' and eighties' greatest hits, the girl began dancing in earnest. It wasn't the kind of slow, romantic dancing that she had expected a long time ago would happen on the night of her senior prom; rather, it was an emphatic rendition of seventies disco that she would sooner be caught dead than let anybody save her boyfriend see. Meanwhile, Drake sat by with a partly bored and partly amused look on his face, watching his girlfriend as she danced.

"Mind if I put the telly on for a bit?" Drake asked lazily as he grabbed the remote, clicked on the television, and started flipping through channels. The screen mounted on the plaster wall displayed a slideshow of imagery in rapid-fire: a half-naked lady chaining herself to a tree, a blood-stained baby's cot with what looked like bits of dog food smeared around, sleet raining down on hapless citizens in some foreign country. More than anything else it was just a slew of sex, violence, and the weather, but now and then he came across programs that looked almost halfway interesting.

"_There was blood and a single gunshot, but just who shot who?_" the radio's speakers sang, thudding out the last couple of words emphatically. "_At the Copa, Copacabana..._"

"Shouldn't that be who shot _whom_?" Drake mused as he came across a promising channel. "Oh, hey, this ought to be good."

"What's that?" Alyssa asked confusedly as she turned her attention to the television.

On the screen, a tiny girl wearing a bright red hood opened fire on a pimple-studded cross-dresser, screaming bloody obscenities as she clumsily handled her assault rifle. In a massive slew of gore, the fat teenager in the mini skirt was sent sprawling against an ornately decorated Christmas tree. Wildly mad with the exhilaration of victory, the girl in the red hood bounded across the room and made for the heavily damaged doors, heading toward sights unknown.

"Battle Royale," Drake practically declared with undisguised passion, "just a re-run of one of the previous seasons, the new one's not starting until the end of year if they stick to the old formula. God I wish I had tickets to the stadium show this year."

Alyssa could only roll her eyes. Though he did not look the type, Drake was a reality show geek tried and true. It did bother the humanitarian in Alyssa slightly that her boyfriend was so enthusiastically into a show that was essentially the glorified and systematic execution of school-age teenagers. Nevertheless, she never quite saw the point in doing anything in that regard; after all Battle Royale was one of their nation's cultural icons, and the government endorsement that had signed on after the first season had only served to intensify its popularity. Despite everything that was inherently wrong about the program, it had struck a chord among so many viewers out there that the producers couldn't push the show out fast enough. With grander and more glorious executions every year (and several dozen spin offs airing in between each main event), the pay-per-view channels that aired the show had never seen ratings and profits as impressive before.

As a strong political dissenter and a fairly benign human being, Alyssa had never been one to buy into all the hype. Strip the show down to its core, and it was essentially senseless murder. Yet the girl knew enough to know that was also what the audience enjoyed; violence was after all a staple of modern TV.

Not that Alyssa didn't like her fair share of violence, catharsis was after all one of the reasons she enjoyed TV and movies. The thing was, real violence compared to fictionalized violence was where the line stood for her. _One makes a pretty good (or bad depending on your point of view) show, the other is just downright... wrong._

"Can we please change the channel?" she practically pleaded. "I'm not a huge fan of the show, it just kind of bothers me that they would show people dying like that on TV. You can watch it, but not tonight please. Tonight's supposed to be magical, tonight's our private prom night, I just don't want something like that show to be a part of it."

"Aww, what's there not to like about the show?" Drake made a cursory protest, but nevertheless allowed Alyssa to take the remote and turn the channel to one that showed some classic movie with actors being cornered in a shopping mall by a horde of ravenous zombies.

"This good?" Drake asked, not without a bit of sarcasm.

"Yeah, that's wonderful," Alyssa said as she watched a fake zombie tear fake entrails out of an actress covered in fake blood. _Yeah, that's my kind of show. Sorry Drake, but make up and special effects trumps actual kids getting murdered any day of the week, y'know?_

"Come on, don't be pissed," she added as she settled back in the beanbag chair to cuddle with her boyfriend. "Look, let's dance a bit and maybe tonight I can show you a whole other business that will get your mind off the damn show..."

"Oh yeah?" Drake said, cracking a smile. "I like the sound of that."

"_Music and passion were always the fashion, at the Copa..._" the radio crooned as the song wound merrily to its end. "_Don't fall in love..._"

* * *

Coming to the ground floor a bit out of breath, Alyssa came back to the real world. Now wasn't the time to sink back into her memories, nope, now should be the time for action. Best to stay focused on that. Keep her mind on things that will get her far, things like getting to Jolene and Frank and Elijah, things like staying low and not getting her head blown off, things like that. _Drake... Drake has no place in your heart right now. He's given in to the game, he's playing. It's for the best if you forget about him._

Blinking away the moisture that had somehow gotten in her eyes (_must be all the sand in the wind_), Alyssa ran across the hotel's lobby to the glass doors.

Pressing herself against the wall for a moment, she peered out to make sure there weren't any other people out there. It was indeed empty, occupied only by various expensive cars, while an assortment of garden shrubbery and clutter decorated the front yard rather extravagantly. Nobody out there, that was a good start. Of course, Brooke was still up on the ninth floor with a high-powered sniper rifle. Unless she had already intoxicated herself to the point of unconsciousness (a feat Alyssa deemed perfectly within the limits of reason), she would be looking down on Alyssa and keeping her safe from any psychos that happened to wander by.

With all her might, she eased the heavy ornate doors open to give herself enough space to slip out. Finding herself in the open, Alyssa whipped out her fully loaded Luger pistol and regarded her surroundings with the greatest of care. _Best to err on the side of caution._

Finding indeed no signs of traps or anything that might surprise her, Alyssa sprinted out of the parking lot, diving practically head first into the foliage lining the curbs. Greenery was good, greenery provided plenty of cover. Huddled in a swath of leaves and twigs, the girl nevertheless didn't feel safe, but at least she felt more like a chameleon as she slinked quickly away. Hidden somewhat from plain view (though anyone with a good eye would have seen her at a moderate distance), she took a moment to go over her bearings. The hotel faced northwest, the cabins were to the south of the island, if her sense of direction was still intact... _Got it, alright, let's set off._

As she moved quickly through the bushes, Alyssa began to hum a familiar tune.

* * *

Looking down from the ninth floor balcony as her newly acquainted friend made her incredibly awkward way through a swath of shrubbery, Brooke couldn't help but wonder if she had made the wrong decision. She knew it wasn't the alcohol that had preceded her judgment and dissuade her against joining the so-called resistance group. She had a better reason than inebriation. She simply didn't trust Alyssa's crowd. Don't get her wrong, she knew Alyssa's friends were probably one of the most goody-two-shoes cliques she could find in their entire high school. No, it wasn't just that, definitely not, if anything Brooke herself was more of a bad girl and much less trustworthy by most people's standards.

The real issue was, she didn't trust them to trust her.

Though she had often played the part of the airheaded debutante (and why not, when life was much simpler that way and her family's fortune and good looks carried her along so breezily?), the girl was not stupid. She had gathered enough from the high school grapevine to know that she wasn't a member of the popular crowd. Hell, she practically wasn't a member of any crowd, save for the self-formed duo of herself and Gail.

If it came down to it, those people wouldn't trust her. And much as she had thought about it, Brooke knew she couldn't trust them either. If things went downright south, they might still stick by each other, but they wouldn't extend the same courtesy to her. No, Brooke knew she was definitely better off alone. _Could do better if Gail was still alive and here with you, but things just don't work out the way you want them to._

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. There was simply nobody else in the game that she could reliably trust. It was definitely going to be that way, then. No grouping with Elijah's little kitten gang. Scrap that, no more alliances with anybody whatsoever. If she wanted to stay alive in this game, she had to play by her own rules.

_She had to play..._

No, that wasn't what she had been thinking, no, no way, no, no, just, definitely no. Early on she had entertained thoughts of going on a killing spree, single-handedly eliminating all the other contestants and emerging as the game's supreme winner, but that was all there was, a fantasy. Not even a fantasy, a thought that had no bearing on anything. No, absolutely not, after hearing the news of Gail's death from the loudspeakers, there was no way in hell she would ever knowingly kill another person.

_Maybe_ in self defense...

_Enough of that!_ she mentally screamed at herself. _Snap out of it, no more of these morbid thoughts, just keep thinking about, I don't know, things are gonna go to hell sooner or later so just stop thinking about things, just lose yourself and get high, pity there's no guy to screw around here, so, yeah, just keep on, good. That's good. Come on, get drunk, get high or get stoned, put the rifle in your mouth and blow your blonde head off, just do something. Anything..._

For the time being at least, Brooke settled for another daiquiri. Pouring herself the drink in the mini-blender she found at the mini-bar, she didn't even bother to pour the alcoholic contents into a stem glass before downing it straight from the pitcher. _Light rum, lime and lemon juice, sugar, ice, and a pinch of desperation. Not a very attractive drink, is it?_

* * *

"_She sits there so refined, and drinks herself half-blind, she lost her youth and she's lost her Tony, now she's lost, her, mind,_" she crooned softly as she cleaved her way through the undergrowth, "_at the Copa, Copacabana, the hottest spot north of Havana..._"

She was fairly deep in the woodlands now, finding nothing but trees and shrubbery every which way she looked. Her former residence, the Asbury Bay Hotel, protruded a dozen or so storeys above the forest canopy from a long way behind her. For the most part the skies were only smidgens of sunlight that penetrated the layers of leaves overhead, but every now and then she caught sight of a carnival or resort landmark. Combined with the wobbly compass she held in her left hand, it helped her estimate her current location. It was by no means accurate to any high degree, but there was nothing she could do about it. She would have to deal.

Trying to steady her hand long enough for the compass's needle to settle, Alyssa did her best to integrate that with the directions on her map. Not for the first time since she had set off, she wished she had been blessed with better geographical skills. It was a nightmare trying to read this thing, much less navigate her way through the island terrain.

If she had her bearings correct, she should be nearing the cabin area in about twenty minutes. Alyssa didn't know what would await her there, nor did she know what would be expected of her once she joined their ranks. The only thought she was really focusing on was that she would soon see some of her closest friends again. Elijah, Jolene, Frank... Who knows, there might even be other people she was on familiar terms with once she arrived. And hopefully, everything will all work out in the end...

So focused on her thoughts, Alyssa did not notice a thing as the wiry boy slipped methodically from the bushes and stood steadfast in her way. The boy was dressed in fairly dark garb as he usually was, but unlike his normal appearance he had a olive drab pack slung over one shoulder, and was wielding a semi-automatic rifle in his other hand. Upon seeing the girl and recognizing her identity, the boy smiled in a widely unsettling manner.

"Hey there, sweetheart," Drake Farrell, a.k.a. Boy #20, said quite nonchalantly. "Miss me?"

Alyssa screeched with considerable fear, bringing up her Luger pistol at once. Wild thoughts and confusion raced every which way in her mind as she tried to make sense of the situation. There was a minuscule bit in her that was glad to see her boyfriend, but it was greatly overwhelmed by her basic instincts. Drake had killed Clara, if the announcement was correct. _He's a murderer, he's dangerous, but this is Drake we're talking about, he's harmless, no, don't think that, don't trust him!_

Every nerve in her body screamed at her to bolt, but at the same time she was afraid to. Drake had a rifle. She wasn't sure what kind it was, wasn't all that familiar with guns really, but at the same time she knew having a semi-automatic weapon aimed at her chest was hardly a good thing. Certainly not conducive to sudden movements or fleeing. One wrong move and she'd be dead. _Keep him occupied, find an opportunity, he hasn't shot you dead yet so there must be some reason!_

"Drake," she said apprehensively.

"I was expecting a warmer greeting," he replied with some disappointment. "But I guess with things the way they are, this is the most I could hope for, eh?"

"You killed Clara," Alyssa hissed before she could restrain herself. Seeing him speak so mundanely as though his name had not been broadcasted as the murderer of one Clara Bellucci eight hours ago, that pissed off a tiny part of her mind. He might have been her boyfriend at one point, but out here he had become a murderer.

"I suppose I did," Drake said disinterestedly. "Though to be truthful I was hoping to get her friend, that Thompson girl as well, but alas, she managed to slip away. Nevertheless... I'm not making that mistake again."

"Are you going to... Are you going to kill me?" she asked, gritting her teeth.

"Maybe, maybe not, it all depends on what you're gonna do really," Drake replied. "I mean, I do expect I will have to kill you at some point since I do intend to win the game... you know what, come to think of it, I'm thinking maybe I should. Not much point in letting you stick around, is there?"

Alyssa had expected the answer, but hearing it voice aloud was still a stab in her heart. _Drake... you bastard. I'm not letting you get away with this so easily..._

Setting the safety catch to the off position, Alyssa prepared to kill her boyfriend. She wasn't a very good shot, hours of practicing with Brooke in the hotel room had revealed that, but she hoped she was proficient enough that it would be enough. She regretted having to do this, dreaded having to kill another human being, but she tried her best not to linger on that. If she thought about it too much, she would end up dead. Shot by her boyfriend. She had to act first. She had to kill him.

Without bothering to reply, Alyssa raised the pistol and leveled off a shot that would hit Drake square in the face. She tried to pull the trigger, but Drake was faster to react and shirked aside, slamming his rifle into her chest. A sharp pain exploded in her chest, causing her to let out an involuntary gasp.

"You think I'm gonna let you do me in?" Drake practically taunted as he cracked the rifle harder into Alyssa's sternum.

Alyssa gathered up all the saliva she had and spat at him. "Fuck you, you animal."

Letting out a definite giggle, Drake asked, "That an offer I hear? Well, maybe I won't be as eager to kill you now that I know you're finally gonna give it up."

Taking on a decidedly darker tone, he added, "Or maybe not..."

In a smooth move, he raised his rifle from between her breasts and caught its muzzle on her explosive collar. Before Alyssa could do anything to react, he wrenched the rifle away with sudden ferocity that sent her sprawling to the ground. Looking up with unknowing confusion in her eyes, Alyssa caught sight of only a flashing smile and the slightest of peace signs as Drake made to flee the scene. In a sign of desperation, she tried to latch onto his foot and prevent him from leaving (_from killing another innocent girl_). With only the mildest of annoyance, Drake kicked her viciously in the wrist, getting her to let go in a burst of pain.

"Take care, sweetheart," Drake said with a smile.

Sprawled on the ground, Alyssa crawled to her knees as Drake disappeared amidst the leaves and branches. The visibility that had protected her now kept her from seeing her former boyfriend's whereabouts as he sprinted away. _Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch!_

As she knelt distressed on the forest soil, feeling a few tears wind their way down her face, Alyssa was unmindful of the tiny beeps emanating from her collar with increasing frequency. She gripped onto the resentment that she felt for the boy she used to think was her boyfriend. Raising her pistol (for some reason Drake had left her with this), she fired off all its rounds into the skies, one thundering boom after another, until it clicked empty. With her last strength, she screamed mightily to the skies.

* * *

They heard the noises. It sounded like several gunshots, all from a single gun, followed by a female voice shrieking at the top of her lungs. Moments later, it was cut short as a smaller, less noticeable boom echoed through the woods. In actuality it was the sound of the explosion as Alyssa's collar detonated, shattering her neck and jaw and sending the top half of her head rolling into a ditch, but neither of the pair recognized the sounds for what they were. Still, they couldn't help being perturbed.

"That sounds like it came from real close," Micah remarked as he dragged the rapidly decomposing bodies of Paige and George behind him. Though he was not athletic or fit by any standards, the boy was large and his sheer mass made up for the leverage. Still, with all the extra weight he had to lug around, they moved around the woods slowly. Paige had been the lighter girl and was easier to handle, but with all the rigor-mortised muscle that he had, George was much more difficult to handle.

"Gunshots..." Jolene mused as she pulled Bonnie's corpse along. "Somebody's probably fighting out there. Still, I'm just glad it's not us getting into trouble."

"Yeah," Micah said thoughtfully.

With renewed power, the heavy boy kept on treading through the bushes. Several paces behind him, the girl stayed on her guard.

* * *

Drake heard the explosion from afar and knew that Alyssa was dead. There was no way around it. The powers that be had crafted a metal collar that would be impossible to remove without their intervention, and once activated, there was no way Alyssa could have deactivated or otherwise prevented it from exploding. Simple as that, Alyssa had to be dead. There was no conceivable way around it.

Probably nobody would believe him if they heard it, but Drake truly did regret killing her. It was different from that last time he had killed somebody. While Clara was just a face among many that he had happened upon, Alyssa had actually meant something to him. For a time, she had been his girlfriend, and she had actually taken that role fairly well. True, she wasn't conventionally beautiful and she was kind of a prude in more ways than one, but she was sweet as they came and treated him genuinely well.

Still, there was nothing he could do about it now. She was dead, he had killed her, that had to be the end of that. It wasn't like she could come back from the grave now. This was real life, this wasn't fiction. There would be none of that bullshit. It wasn't like she would come back and haunt him now that he had killed her.

This was definitely it. That was what he liked about the Battle Royale, it was undeniably _real_.

Yeah, reality was good. Reality was good because it was the only thing that would get him out of here, out of this hellhole, out of his mundane life. Reality would take him and elevate his position to that of a king. Not just a king, the latest winner of the Annual United States Battle Royale. He would succeed Julie Winnfield's position. It would be him walking down the red carpet, sporting enough scars to terrify even the most hardened of criminals. It would be him publishing memoirs and autobiographies, his face emblazoned all over Battle Royale endorsed merchandise and sponsor goods. It would be his voice coming out of the loudspeakers in the next year, announcing whenever one of the contestants was killed. It would be him congratulating the inevitable winner and give up his throne, all the while smiling with paternal pride...

_Win this, and all your troubles will be over. You could have anything you ever wanted. All you need to do is to win this death game. Forty-nine casualties..._

All those times he had watched teenagers slaughter each other in the comfort of his basement. The thrill he had felt when Nicholas Bonsaint, a.k.a. the former Boy #7 and the Season Seven contestant he had been rooting for, ultimately emerged victorious.

Tearing through the green clusters that thrived in the undergrowth, Drake thought about setting out in search for his next victim. His third victim. _Yeah, that sounds good, two kills under your name now. First that Clara girl, still no idea who she is but if that's what the announcements say her name is, and now you got Alyssa, so two kills, two kills in total, yeah, that's good, just over half a day and you've already killed two people, two girls admittedly, but still, two people. That's better than most people have, hell, that's probably better than everybody else in this competition. Hell yeah, that kicks ass._

But he was tired. He had set off right from the beginning, hunting down the weaker contestants (_girls_) and dodging from those who thought they could best him (_nobody so far, luckily_). The night was long and enduring, and he had gotten through that. He hadn't been able to catch a single wink though, and that would probably prove to be an obstacle. Hell, it was already inching at the edges of his consciousness, the exhaustion that would soon set in. Lack of sleep did not bother the boy, but lack of sleep on top of all the physical exertion, not to mention the mental stress, hell, that was nearly crippling altogether.

He needed some rest. He needed some sleep, maybe, or at least a place he could rest for a while. Yeah, resting sounds good, way better than sleep at least. He could easily made it through three days without sleeping. He couldn't afford to lose eight hours of time now, and heaven forbid if some lucky bastard happened to come wandering by while he was out...

But he couldn't just find any location to take a breather. Especially not in the middle of the woods. Maybe one of the cabins nearby...

_No, not the cabins. People are bound to be heading there, which is good if you're in your full mind, but if you're gonna be snoozing then it's best to stay out of the way. Not the cabins, maybe a tool shed or something. Bound to be a couple of those nearby._

With his rifle held high, the boy sought shelter. He had the map sufficiently memorized that he knew which direction to head towards if he wanted to find it. It would take him away from the cabins, away from where people were likely to be staying, but that was something he could easily remedy. He had the will and the firepower to.


	20. Hour 15: 38 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 15**

**38 Contestants Remaining

* * *

**

He took that back. It was really an incredibly stupid idea to taunt fate, because hoping he would run into an adversary did him absolutely no good at all. The pair that he came across had not only disarmed and downed him, they had taken relish in discovering new levels of torture. They had hurt him, they had mutilated him, and they had taunted him with the knowledge of the pain that was to follow. The boy had no question it was some sort of karmic justice that came to him. After all, he had taunted the universe and begged for a worthy opponent; in response, he found two that he could not have dealt with.

Bound to the thick trunk of a tree with a length of rusty wire, the boy regarded his captors with some level of curiosity. Blondie was standing guard now, holding his assigned pistol in a manner much like a Russian hitwoman. He could see clearly enough though, despite her enthusiasm and her inventive torture techniques, her bravado was forced. She was clearly terrified, but somehow managed to hold it in and express it as determination.

Her boyfriend, the Blondo, was off searching for something trivial. Food, water, shelter, some sort of needless triviality like that. Nothing to be concerned with, and yet... it got him out of the way.

Despite his heavy yet not quite life-threatening injuries, the boy thought that the universe must have been playing some awful kind of joke on him. By sheer chance, he had lost the fight to two people he would normally have slaughtered fairly easily enough, and for three long hours, he had been toyed with like a cat's plaything. He recognized, though, that the universe had either decided to give him a second chance, or was plotting an altogether more amusing game.

"Hey, 'irlie," he grunted distortedly, his speech considerably marred by the broken and missing teeth in his mouth as well as the Joker-like fissures that he now sported on either side of his lips. "'heerlea'er 'irl, yeah, you, 'irlie. Come c'oser, I wanna 'alk."

"What's there to _'alk_ about, shithead?" Jessica Fondacaro, a.k.a. Girl #8, spoke harshly, looking over at her captive with a repulsed glare.

"Hey, hey, no need 'o mock my h'peech," he replied with great difficulty, "I alrea'y know i's a son o' a bi'h 'o un'ers'and."

Twisting weakly in his binds, the boy went on in the heavily warped accent, "'ust saying, I know i's gonna be di'icul'h 'o ge'h wha'h I'm saying, i'n 'ha 'igh?"

"What? No, seriously, what?" Jessica said in clear confusion. She was used to hearing perfectly or at least decently enunciated English, understanding the speech of a man who had a mouthful of teeth knocked out by a well-aimed kick to the face was not high on her agenda.

"I know your 'ecre'h," the injured boy said with a bit of a forced smile. "Wha'h you've been hi'ing 'rom your 'ear B'on'o."

Leaning in, Jessica tried futilely to discern the boy's words. She was not at all worried about a sudden attack, after all, he had been physically restrained to a tree with a spool of rusted metal wire they had found near an equipment shed. He had been broken and driven to the limits, taking only the better part of an hour to completely shatter his tough guy psyche. Besides, she had the gun she took from him, and she currently had the gun jammed down the front of his pants. Though his testicles were now permanently out of working order, the threat was still a very legitimate one; she could just as easily shoot him in the gut as in the groin.

She didn't expect an attack, and that was why the boy didn't give her one. It wouldn't have been difficult, just so you knew, and it would have went off without a damned hitch this time too. A sizable twist of his upper body would free an arm available to punch in a millisecond. Once Blondie had taken a slug to the face, it wouldn't have been hard to snatch up the falling gun and give her a lead injection in that Botox-boosted brain of hers.

But not today. Today, the boy had a gleefully kept secret that he revealed with great joy. Without a single articulation defect to speak of, he said clearly, "I know you're pregnant, Blondie. And I know dumb, sweet Blondo's not the father."

"That's a malicious lie," Jessica hissed after a skipped beat.

"Oh yeah?" the boy taunted.

"You shut the fuck up," she said in clear anger, "and you know Chet won't believe any of that nonsense you're spewing."

"What sort of nonsense?" Kurt Vogel, a.k.a. Boy #3, said rather exhaustedly as the world came back to him. He had been in a really dark place, a canyon with no torches and no traveling lanterns to light his way. It seemed he was just about to suffocate in the viscous darkness when he came to again and saw Jessica's well-groomed face before his eyes. She looked dead serious, and a little pissed off too, which was a really bad thing considering Jessica could just about take out any of her nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine frustrations on his battered body.

"There is no baby," she said with a note that closed all possibility of rebate. Not that Kurt even knew what he had apparently said, something that got Jessica all riled up, evidently. Had he said that? It would seem an awfully idiotic thing to do, especially given the way the muzzle of her gun kept tracing near the bloodied ruins of his crotch.

"Good for you?" he mused, utterly baffled.

With a scoff, Jessica withdrew her pistol and instead used it to whip the boy heavily across the face, getting him to groan and spit out a dislodged tooth. Having had all sorts of abuse heaped onto him by his sadistic captors, Kurt had gotten somewhat used to the pain and was barely reacting as Jessica had hoped. With some level of sadistic disappointment, the girl jammed the pistol back into the waistline of her skirt as she heard a strange rustling.

"What's that noise?" she asked quizzically as she eyed her surroundings. Expecting to find her boyfriend safely returning from a brief jaunt to ransack various food and other supplies from the convenience store, she was relieved to find that it was indeed Chet Donovan, a.k.a. Boy #22, as he stepped through clumps of undergrowth. In addition to the heavy sledgehammer that he was lugging behind him, Chet carried several plastic bags full of cakes, coffees, magazines, fruit-flavored candies, and bottled drinks.

"Omigosh, I love you!" Jessica exclaimed as she jumped to her boyfriend's side. Pulling out a bottle of diet soda from the bags that Chet had set down, she chugged down the drink thirstily with incredible relish.

"Ease up, we've still got plenty," Chet said as he gently pulled his girlfriend to the side. "No luck with weapons though, but let me tell ya, if I win this game and get out of here with a shitload of money then I'm gonna buy every Dusk-to-Dawn Mart out there."

"Not me, if I win this I'm getting plastic surgery," Jessica replied as she tore open a packet of gum drops, "I mean I'm going to be sporting some pretty nasty battle scars, so I'm gonna get the best surgeons in the world to fix all of it, and then some more on top of that."

"I'm probably biased, but I think you'd look pretty damn hot no matter what," Chet said with a broad grin.

"That's sweet," she replied, smiling.

Eyeing the distracted couple from his pitifully tied position to the tree, Kurt slumped as far as his restraints would allow him to. It looked to him like they could still remain there for a while, and honestly Kurt was already at the limits of his sanity. The agony from his brawl-acquired injuries added with those newly inflicted by the sadistic pair had only steadily intensified over the past few hours, and Kurt wasn't sure how much more he could take. It was a miracle that he could still stand upright on what should by all means be a broken foot, let alone escape from two completely capable opponents who were, he might add, in possession of his only weapon. Looking to the sky as far as his neck could crane, Kurt wondered if it was his time to die.

_Not quite yet, my friend_, a subdued voice spoke in the back of his mind, _just stay put and watch, Kunibert, the fun and games have yet to come._

Changing the subject, Chet asked pointedly as he jabbed Kurt in the ribs, "Shouldn't we feed him or something?"

"What's the point? I thought you said we're gonna kill him, so let's just do that and get this over with, okay?" Jessica said angrily as she pulled out the pistol and leveled off a shot that would hit the boy clean in the face. Chet jerked his head up as he eyed Jessica, but made no attempt to stop her from doing anything. This was it. She was going to kill him, with his own gun to boot. One quick shot, BLAM, and then he would be slumped dead with only the rusted wire to hold him to the tree.

"Jesus Christ, don't do this please, don't kill me, I'm no threat to you now, let me go and I'll die on my own," the boy said rapidly and pitifully.

"Not a chance," Jessica said coolly, and clicked the trigger...

...but not before the boy pulled an incredibly risky move, bringing down his forehead to slam against the pistol's barrel. Nobody was more surprised than Jessica when the move went off without a single hitch, deflecting her arm and causing the bullet to discharge harmlessly into the ground. The escaping gunpowder seared his face at such proximity, but more than anything else the boy was just glad it wasn't a solid bullet that had gotten him. _Alright, make this quick, gotta say what counts now._

Angrily, Jessica raised the pistol to make another kill shot, but the boy spoke first.

"I wouldn't do that again if I were you, are you not aware of how many people you just alerted your location to?" the boy hissed rapidly, lest Jessica's impulsive trigger finger do him in before he could finish what he had to say. "You've heard the report and you've seen the bodies, killers like Courtney and Drake are out there, and if they're any smarter than you two they'll be heading towards gunfire."

"He's right," Chet said, wide-eyed, "oh shit, oh shit, he's right, we gotta get out of here."

"He's bluffing," Jessica spat out.

"No, no, I've seen this happen, the true killers always head to where there's fire and gunshots," Chet said wildly.

"So what? Let them come, we have guns, we can take them, let me just kill this son of a bitch first!" Jessica shouted angrily with a jab of her pistol.

"Look, just, I said no, alright? We don't have _guns_, we have one gun between the two of us and two crappy weapons, if whoever the fuck comes along has a better gun then this is gonna go straight to the shitter. I've watched this show, he's right, we can't afford to do that," Chet practically spat out as he grasped Jessica by her wrist, preventing her from firing any more shots. "Grab your pack and everything you need, we're getting out of here right now."

He let go of her hand, shouldering his pack and sledgehammer as well as a bag of their extraneous supplies. Jessica complied with some level of grudge, pulling her own pack around one arm, but she wasn't willing to let things go without settling the score. The boy had incited her, he had made a fool of her, and most importantly of all he had taunted her with the discovery of her secret. He had to be put down...

With clear resentment in her eyes, Jessica stuffed the pistol back in the waistline of her skirt and pulled out her hunting knife instead. In one quick motion, she made to bury the weapon deep in the boy's chest, but somehow he was again faster than her by the fraction of a second. Shirking back as far as he could go, the blade instead sliced through the metal wire, freeing the boy with only the shallowest of wounds. With a howl of laughter, he sent Jessica flying with a well-placed kick, his good arm wrenching the hunting knife from her fingers.

As Chet leapt to his girlfriend's defense, the boy lashed out with a vicious kick at his shin, getting the athlete to fall to his knees in tremendous pain. In one smooth move, the boy reached to the plastic bag that Chet held and yanked out a metal flask of quality whiskey. Reaching to his belt, he jammed the flask in his pants and made sure it wouldn't fall loose. _This ought to come in handy._

Turning to the downed and moaning Jessica, the boy stood over her for the briefest of seconds. He could end her life right there. He held her blade in his hands, and it wouldn't be difficult at all to thrust the blade down the top of her head. _But what fun would that be?_

"Thanks for the great time, Blondie," he said with a disturbingly high-pitched giggle as he stashed the robbed weapon away. "Oh, and sorry 'bout the imminent miscarriage, but good luck with everything else!"

With the parting word, the boy sprinted out of the clearing the best he could on a broken ankle. Instead of running on two feet as a normal person would, he bounded through the clumps of foliage on all fours like an injured animal. The cut in his left hand and the damage to his ankle slowed him immensely, but in any event he was able to escape out of sight before Chet or Jessica could decide to give pursuit. The heavy undergrowth was a great help, as much as they hindered his visibility they also kept him mostly hidden from view. Just a rustling blur in the greenery, the boy sped off with great resolve.

_Keep running, the clock's ticking now, keep running, keep running, any time now it could all go wrong for you, get out before you have to relinquish control again.

* * *

_

The boy wrestled for control for as long as he could, but eventually he had to give in to the greater side of his psyche. He could actually feel the tendrils of consciousness writhe under his mind, and not wanting the struggle to harm their mental state any further, the boy gave in. If the time had come when his presence was needed, they would make the transition. For now, Kurt could take sufficient care of himself. And if he couldn't... well, the boy wasn't afraid to resurface if he was required.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he neared the outskirts of the amusement park. There were several old farm barns nearby, painted an antiquated brick red with wooden support beams. They were either novelty constructions built in line with the theme of the park, or aged edifices remaining from a time before the expensive resort and amusement park was erected. Bales of stale hay lined the edges of the barns, upon which several crows were perched. The building looked deserted, but without exploring its interiors he could not say with any certainty.

_Ain't got much time left. Kunibert, this is something you'll have to take care of alone. Don't screw this up too badly, mkay?_

And with that, the boy retreated back to the place he came from, an uncharted cavern in the deepest part of Kurt Vogel's mind. Coming back to consciousness after what felt like a long siesta, Kurt could only regard his surroundings with a mixture of confusion and relief.

"Chet?" he asked tentatively. "Blonde girl?"

There were no signs of his captors. Chet and Jessica had long since gone, and had left him alone in the grassland. He didn't know if that spelt good news or bad, but he knew he couldn't stay out in the open much longer. His gun was gone, replaced by a hunting knife that he recognized was Jessica's. Wounds peppered his bodies, talismans of Chet and Jessica's sadistic torture in addition to the broken ankle and injured hand he sustained while fighting the couple. He had to tend to the wounds first.

The nearest building was a couple of farmhouse barns. They didn't provide much cover from the elements, but they would serve better than the open. Kurt made to amble toward the desolate barns, but the first step caused him to fall over screaming in pain. _Damn, definitely broken, hurts, hurts, hurts real bad, motherfuck!_

Lying on his front, Kurt felt his resolution waver for the first time he was in the game. Still, he couldn't give in here, he couldn't give in now. He had to go on. Kurt Vogel didn't quit from anything, much less the Battle Royale. Using his bare hands (or more correctly, his one hand; the hand that had been cut by Jessica was essentially ineffectual for all intents and purposes), he gripped the grass and roots that snaked over the soil and pulled himself forward. It was an incredibly inefficient mode of movement, but it was all Kurt could do without worsening the pain in his ankle. It felt like every bone had shattered and was severely inflamed, and in all likelihood that was probably what was going on. It would be a miracle if he could still walk afterward even with advanced medical treatment and weeks of intensive physical therapy. Still, Kurt wasn't too concerned. If it was his time to go, it was his time to go. Simple as that.

For now, he would just do his best to take care of himself.

Crawling over to the front of the gambrel-roofed barn house, Kurt looked up at the two-storey building. It was an aged edifice that reeked of moist and semi-rotten wood, with cracks and holes corroded at places in the walls. The barns front doors hung heavily from its twisted hinges, looking like they would fall completely apart in another week or two. One of the doors had already been tugged open and was held in place by a crumbling pile of bricks. Inside the barn, darkness reigned while sunlight the color of ash diffused through the breaks in the rooftop shingles. Rusted tools were scattered all over the place, just enough to contribute to a vastly unsettling atmosphere.

Looking inside, Kurt was only grateful to see that nobody had already occupied the barn house. It wasn't that he didn't want to run into anybody, but in his condition a fight would almost certainly lead to his death. _At least let me patch up a little, Jesus Christ._

The barn's floor was devoid of undergrowth, but Kurt was able to make his way inside with minimal difficulty. Leaning heavily on one of the corroding benches, he felt it begin to give under his weight but held by a miracle. _Good, out of the open, now to deal with the hard part._

His injuries. Given what Chet and Jessica had put him through his injuries were unsurprisingly plentiful. For the most part they were flesh wounds, but some of those were serious enough to warrant attention. Though not a medical expert by any means, Kurt knew he had to clean himself up. Disinfect the wounds, wrap them up, cauterize them, probably would have to stitch some of those up as well, not to mention the broken foot. Well, one at a time.

The blood was no longer discharging from the gaping slit at the base of his hand, instead scabbed over and looking like it might have been infected. There was very little sensation remaining in his thumb, but the remaining fingers could still move about, albeit painfully. Kurt knew the first order of business was to disinfect the wound, but that proved to be plentifully troublesome on its own. The barn itself was probably infested with tetanus and all other sorts of bacteria. He had lost his pack and all the water he had in there. _Damn..._

A cool touch at his waist reminded him. Somehow he had acquired a metal flask, some sort of liquor that he couldn't identify with the coppery stench in his mouth. Pulling it out and sniffing the mouth of the flask (_smells strong, nice_), Kurt set it aside. He shrugged off his shirt and made short work of it, tearing it into long strips of cloth. Tipping the flask over, he soaked the rags liberally in the liquor. It stung bitingly as he bound the strip of disinfected cloth around his scabbed hand.

Next order of business, he had to do something about the fissures at the side of his lips. He used a handful of alcohol-soaked cloth to daub the wounds, clearing them of most of the grime and solidified blood that had accumulated. Ripping the Zippo lighter from his pocket, Kurt took some relish in the fact that Chet and Jessica hadn't thought to rid him of the simple device. Flipping it open and holding it just under the rips in the side of his lips, he muttered resignedly to himself, "Here goes nothing."

With a click and a whoosh of flame, he began cauterizing the wounds. It hurt like hell, worse than hell possibly, but at the same time he knew there was no way around it. In great pain, he slowly moved the lighter around, feeling flesh sizzle and char as the whiskey-enhanced flame did its job.

"Fuck that hurt!" he hissed as he whipped the lighter away. The small metal device clanged against the far wall, its flame extinguishing as it clattered shut.

"Somebody there?" a tearful voice cried out from above.

Looking up to the second storey of the barn, Kurt could see an unrecognizable face peering over the edge. Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, looked disturbingly similar to an addicted starlet going through rehab. He looked, in short, a complete wreck. His eyes were heavily black-ringed, sunken, and tear-stained. Shreds of hay stuck to his mussed hair and his clothes. In one hand he held a screwdriver, in the other a flashlight that he aimed at Kurt. There was a fire in his eyes that had long since gone out, leaving a smoldering wreck. Of course, he was the kid with the sweetheart, right? The girl who had died early on. Yeah, that was definitely him. Kurt remembered him spurring his girlfriend on when she had hesitated back when they were still strapped to the roller coaster. It didn't surprise him much to see Andrew in such a pitiful state; it wasn't a far stretch to think that he might have been devastated to lose his girlfriend. _Probably lost a part of his mind too. Poor bastard._

"Dude, you look hurt. Are you okay?" Andrew asked dully.

Not just a poor bastard, but an altruistic poor bastard, evidently. In any other scenario, Kurt would have easily made the boy into a lifeless corpse like those two he had seen several hours ago. The problem with that was in his current state of immobility, he could barely manage to climb the ladder that led up to him, much less accomplish anything hostile.

"Yeah, I'm hurt kinda bad, I'd really appreciate it if you could give me a hand," he said listlessly.

"Oh Christ, hold on, just hold on a second, I'm gonna come right down, just, just wait," Andrew babbled as he clicked off the flashlight and jammed it back into his pants.

Screwdriver in hand, Andrew made to climb down the rickety ladder, jumping off halfway and landing off-balance. Getting back on his feet, he approached Kurt with his weapon held high. _The boy's cautious, he might be devastated but he's not stupid._

"For the love of god," Kurt groaned as the other boy lingered at a distance, "I'm dying here!"

"Sorry, just being careful, you never know exactly just who is capable of what," Andrew noted.

Kurt snorted. "If I were dangerous then you would've heard my name on the announcements already. I haven't done anything except walk right into a trap."

"A trap?"

"Chet and Jessica. Those two attacked me, took my pack away, got me hurt real bad and for some fucked up reason kept me around as a fuck toy. I don't know how but I got away, I guess they might have gotten tired of lugging me 'round or something, and now I'm just trying to find a place to patch myself up," Kurt said, a little pissed off. "

"Damn, Chet and Jessica, huh? Guess I'll have to look out for them," Andrew said grimly. "Look, let's just, let's get you fixed up. If we don't get you in a presentable condition then you're liable to die of sheer infection in a couple hours, hell, in all likelihood that's gonna be true regardless. Just, let me take a look? I'm no doctor but I can do my best."

"Yeah, you do that," Kurt mumbled as he shifted to a more comfortable position. "God I need a smoke. You don't happen to have one, do ya?"

"Nope. Don't smoke, my pop's a mortician and he used to tell me all these horror stories," Andrew replied as he fished out his flashlight and shone it on the prone boy. Kurt winced at the sudden cone of light, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.

With the added illumination, Andrew was finally able to see the full extent of Kurt's injuries.

"Some of your wounds look burnt. I dunno if that's good or not, but they still look in pretty poor condition," Andrew noted, then exclaimed lightly, "Jumpin' Jack Flash, the hell happened to your face?"

"You don't wanna know. I tried cauterizing them, but it still feels like half my face's ripped apart at the seams," Kurt said with difficulty.

"Tell me about it. You need stitches," Andrew said worriedly, "and probably a hell lot more, but that's neither here nor there. You're in luck though, I've got a sewing kit lying around, I'll go grab it and give it a shot. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"Couldn't if I wanted to," Kurt quipped as he indicated toward his broken foot.

"Just, try not to move around," Andrew added with a forced smile. Turning away, he climbed up the ladder that led to the second storey, disappearing over the edge after scrambling up with both legs in the air. Getting to work quickly, Andrew sifted through all the clutter detritus that had occupied the top floor of the barn. The previous owner of the barn must have been somewhat of an antiquarian. There were all sorts of assorted crap that had accumulated over the years and been stored there. Though he swore he had seen the sewing kit not long ago, Andrew sifted through the rusted tools and ancient furniture to no avail.

"I swear, it's right here," Andrew said confusedly as he dug deeper into the barn owner's heirlooms, finding nothing but a bloody cut as his finger grazed against a slightly rusted trowel.

"Don't bother," Kurt said as he closed his eyes. "I'll just wait it out. Can't have much longer in me, I don't think."

"I know it's around here somewhere. Just hang in there," Andrew insisted, "_please_."

"Normally I'd say let's just fuck it and get high 'til we die," Kurt remarked as he idly toyed with the end of his bandages, "but seeing as you're not likely to agree to either, just go ahead I guess. No reason I can't hang around for a little while longer."

"Sounds great to me, you know I hate for anybody to die before it's their time," Andrew said with an unnerved smile. For a moment, Kurt thought about pursuing the subject of discussion and ask the boy about the one death before her time that he knew had to affect him greatly – namely, the death of his girlfriend Nadine Ellis, a.k.a. Girl #1. He had clearly been grieving his girlfriend for some time, but made absolutely no mention of that as he struggled to remain operational. A part of him felt like the boy was working on autopilot, while another simply thought that it was all unimportant in the greater scheme.

"So you mentioned horror stories?" Kurt added as he tried to remain in a conversational tone.

"Come again?"

"You said your old man used to tell you all these horror stories. Mind sharing a few of those? You know, just for curiosity's sake," Kurt said lightly.

"You wanna hear?" Andrew replied.

"Sure, why not?" Kurt said, closing his eyes as he struggled not to fade out of consciousness.

"Okay, uh, so you know the Morley Tobacco man on TV? The guy in all those cigarette advertisements?" Andrew recounted as he recalled what his father had told him time and again.

"Black cowboy hat, leather vest, rides a saddle? 'You'll come a long way with a Morley?'" Kurt asked.

"That's the one. Anyhow, the guy's really Vince MacLean, one of those commercial one hit wonder actors. Died of lung cancer, unsurprisingly, got wheeled to my pop's morgue and autopsied just for the sake of it. My pop said he cut him open and found lungs black as a coal mine worker's. Not just his lungs, cut open from nose to bronchus he looked just about rotten the whole way down. Cancerous tissue, looked just about like a reddish black mass apparently, like minced meat left too long on the grill. The wife, this rich widow with a modest fortune from the Morley Tobacco company, just about went nuts, blamed Morley Tobacco for getting her husband addicted. Anyway, this part is where it gets a bit personal. My pop's a cool guy and all, but he's an utter bastard through and through. Mom knew all about it, but she pretended she didn't 'til the day she died. Anyway, my pop found himself fancying the young widow. Sweet talked her like no tomorrow, charmed the veiled hat off her and in no time they were going at it."

"I'd say nice, but that doesn't sound like the response you're looking for," Kurt quipped.

"Heh. Not quite. The two of them were going at it right there in the morgue apparently, next to the tobacco guy's cut open body. I mean, picture the scene, my pop just cracked open the guy's ribcage with a bone saw so there's little shreds of gore and bone everywhere, and pressing the chick's back against one of those metal tables, they'd get glued to surface just by the congealed blood of whatever corpse's there."

"Man, your old man's an animal," Kurt said with a grin.

"He was. Anyway, he pressed her up, hitched her ass up on the table and started going down on her and that's when he recoiled like a Desert Eagle just went off."

Kurt made a face. "Bitch tastes rank?"

"Worse than rank. My pop jumped to his feet and pulled the plastic coat thing around himself. The widow's just sitting there, naked and confused, bits of her late husband's flesh sticking to where dead flesh should not be. My pop standing there half-naked, he freaks the fuck out and asks her if the tobacco guy ever ate her out, and the widow says he does it all the time. Eating her out was one of his favorite things to do in bed, she says."

Shoving aside a particularly holey sheet of fabric that at one time might have served as a tent, Andrew found what he had been looking for. A small, plastic kit equipped with pins, needles, threads, and a miniature air of scissors. Shoving the kit in his pockets, Andrew also grabbed an extra bottle of water from his pack before tossing his pack over the edge and making his way downstairs.

"Got the kit. I'm heading back down. You just focus on hanging 'round the mortal plane."

"So what happens next?" Kurt asks.

"Right, so my pop grabs the widow off the body tray and shoves her clothes back in her hands. Tells her to get her sorry ass to a hospital, get herself checked as soon as possible."

"For what, the clap?"

"Unfortunately no, would have been a hell lot easier to treat if it were. You see, when my pop's eating a girl out, he treats it like an art. The way he'd talk about it, you'd think he's making a living out of it. Wedging his face between a girl's legs and slipping his tongue in, lick after lick after lick, he could stay down there for years for all you'd know. Mountains could erode."

"Man, how'd you even know 'bout stuff like this?" Kurt said with a slight laugh. "My old man never even gave me the sex talk, not that he had any wisdom to pass on that I couldn't learn from porn and personal experience."

"Well, y'know," Andrew said quizzically, "he used to tell me stuff like this while... training me."

"Training?"

"Yeah, you know, practice makes perfect. Pop used to get me to practice with him all the time. Nothing gay, not any stuff like that, just... we'd rim each other and stuff, and my pop would let me know what's wrong with my technique, what girls like and stuff," Andrew said with an oblivious air. "Jesus, kinda weird talking about this with you, y'know?"

_Holy shit, the kid's old man's a perv? Then again, the bunch of fucks up there picking names out of a hat probably know already, if they're doing their jobs right they probably have all our mental profiles ready and just pick out the fifty most psychologically fucked up kids of the bunch or something. No point in troubling him, I guess... Not like either of us are gonna make it back out there any time soon, 'cept maybe in a body bag. Jesus, this is some fucked up irony._

He wisely refrained from commenting on Andrew's familial situation, and instead arched his back more comfortably against the rickety bench. "So go on, why'd your old man tell some gold digger to get herself checked if not for an STD?"

Getting near the prone boy, Andrew shone the flashlight on the side of his face. "Right. I'm gonna need to disinfect the needle first. You got a lighter or something?"

"Tossed it somewhere nearby, and I've got some whiskey here that'll probably work," Kurt said with a wince.

"Got it," Andrew said as he retrieved the Zippo lighter. Flicking it open awkwardly, he produced a small flame and began running the stainless steel needle (thankfully impervious to rust or mold) through its center. Rudimentary, but hopefully it should act well enough to save Kurt from an incredibly nasty infection.

"Anyhow, so, my pop's got this... talent, sort of. He used to say all this stuff that would creep you right out, stuff about how dead and decomposing tissue differs from the living variety. How infected tissue wouldn't just not look right, it wouldn't smell right or taste right either, apparently. I dunno how he knows stuff like this, but anyhow, not the point. So he tells the tobacco guy's girl, he grabs her by the shoulders and says to her if she knows what syphilis tastes like. Or gonorrhea, or HIV, or anything like that. And my pop, he tells her that the moment he went down on her, two swipes of his tongue and he knows she should get checked."

Dipping the needle in a daub of whiskey, he attached the plastic thread and took a deep breath. "Alright, here goes nothing. This is going to hurt like hell, probably."

"See, turns out the tobacco guy, he's not only addicted, he's so hooked on Morleys that he can't put them down. Even while fucking a girl, he'd have a cig between two fingers. Going down on her, he'd go for a drag in between every lick. Huff and puff, huff and muff. You see where this is going?"

With trembling hands, Andrew began stitching up the side of Kurt's face. He had no experience in stitching up a wound, but simple guesswork plus a great deal of luck helped him somewhat. He knew he should be focusing on getting the job done, but not wanting the other boy to drift off into unconsciousness, he continued telling the story.

"So the widow, she's confused as hell but she complies. She finds her family doctor and gets the test my pop told her to, and lo and behold, she wouldn't believe her eyes when she saw the test results. Cervical cancer, late stage as far as I know. Just by puffing cigarette smoke into her pussy, he's given her the venereal equivalent of lung cancer. She died a few months later, and who else but my pop gets to body check her. And he tells me, sliced open, her uterus looks as putrid and rotten as the Morley guy's lungs."

"God that's nasty," Kurt said disgustedly, wincing as the movement tugged a stitch loose.

"Don't talk," Andrew said methodically as he tightened the stitch, "or you'll make this harder for both of us."

Kurt raised his hand slightly in apology. Nodding at him, Andrew continued sewing up his left cheek. For all the pain it caused him, the stitches did affix the torn flaps of his cheeks. _Not at all pretty, but you'll last longer at least. For all the good that'll do..._

"So my pop telling me this, he never tells me how cervical cancer tastes like. Doesn't matter, I sort of figured it out on my own. Before he recounted the story, my pop would always get some pretentious halibut dish with tartar sauce whenever he took a girl out to dinner. He'd bring home the leftovers sometimes, tells the girl that he's got a two-year-old at home and apparently chicks dig the caring single father angle. Not afterwards, once he's done tossing the Morley guy in the incinerator, he's never touched a bite of the stuff. Never ordered it no more, never brought any home. There, it's done. I did my best, but I've never done this before, so let me know if it's okay and I'll do the same on the other side."

"Feels fine to me," Kurt said as he tested the stitches on the left side of his face. "Go ahead, do the rest."

"Alright," Andrew said as he moved to the other side, bringing up the flashlight to illuminate the wound. "This side looks a bit less torn, I reckon it won't take as long."

"Good to hear."

"What was I saying? Oh, right. To this day, I still have no appetite for tartar sauce whatsoever."

"Don't blame you," Kurt said as Andrew disinfected the needle again. "If I ever get out of here, I'm never ordering that stuff either."

"Ain't that a joke," Andrew said with a laugh as he got to work. "Getting out of here, I mean. Let's face it, neither of us are going to win this thing. I've got about as much chance of winning as that dead cow outside, and you've got a broken foot that neither of us know how to fix."

"There's a dead cow outside?" Kurt said quickly as Andrew paused in his work.

"Yeah, just behind the building. Outside the back door. There's a dead cow with the top of its head sawed off, looks as nasty as you would imagine it to be," Andrew said.

"Head sawed off, eh? Somebody's probably been taking brain samples out of it," Kurt mused as Andrew daubed the needle with a handful of whiskey-soaked rags. "Testing for rabies or mad cow disease I'm guessing, though why somebody's doing that here is anybody's guess. I don't suppose the cow looks decomposed?"

"Not really. Looks fresh," Andrew replied.

"Weird. Ah, hell, maybe it's just one of those things where the prop guys put a bunch of random crap around to add to the atmosphere. Like the footage of several dozen kids killing each other isn't already chilling enough," Kurt mused rhetorically.

"Maybe. Now shut up and hold still, I'm gonna finish up," Andrew said hurriedly, dipping the needle into the edges of Kurt's lips. Looping the plastic thread around and snipping just beyond the knot, he carefully placed the needle back into the sewing kit. With the flashlight in hand, he made a quick check of the stitches on both sides of Kurt's face. It was no expert craftwork, but the stitches held the ragged flesh together. All in one day's work. His father would have been proud.

"There ya go, all done," Andrew said with a bit of pride.

"Major thanks, dude. I really owe you one. I'm honest, for an impromptu field medic, you're a rather good one," Kurt said gratefully as he closed his eyes. _The worst part's over, it's all fixed now, it's all fixed good. God, I feel exhausted._

"Yeah, well, we still have to broken foot to worry about, which admittedly I know nothing about," Andrew said as he turned around.

Handing the bottle of water over, he added, "You'll want to sip on this for a while. You've lost a lot of blood, might as well get some fluids back into you."

"Thanks," Kurt responded tiredly as he grabbed the plastic bottle from Andrew. "I could use a drink. And since alcohol's not really an option right now, I'll settle for water."

"A wise choice," Andrew said with a smile as he retrieved another bottle. Twisting the cap open, he guzzled down the water. The mental exertion of giving another contestant impromptu first aid hadn't hit him until now. A million things could have gone wrong, and at least half of those scenarios could end up with one or more of them dead. It was a miracle everything worked out just the way he intended it to. Kurt's life would be prolonged, though not for very much longer by the look of things.

"Wanna toast?" Kurt asked jokingly as he held the bottle in the air.

"To what?"

"Shit, I don't know. Something ironic, probably," Kurt said with a snort.

"To a long and prosperous life?" Andrew asked with a tilt of his head.

"That sounds right," Kurt said as he sipped idly from the bottle. "To a long and prosperous life!"

"Right on," Andrew deadpanned, then practically cracked up. "God this sucks ass."

"Hear, hear," Kurt remarked with good cheer.

"No, really, I mean it," Andrew said with increasing anger, "seriously, this sucks. I mean, we're good kids mostly, people who haven't done shit to anybody, and out of all the delinquents and thugs in the country, they pick our class? I mean, that's just freaking unfair."

"That's not true," Kurt pointed out. "We've got our fair share of bad seeds in our class too. I mean, there's people like Leon and George and Deborah, people into the gang scene, then there's the psychologically screw ups, not naming names but I'm sure there's more than a couple around, and add a bunch of kids that end up playing out of fear or whatever, and you've got the ratings you want. Hell, if our class is as good as you think we are, nine people wouldn't already be dead. Probably more than that, the way things are looking."

"I guess that's true," Andrew conceded with some reluctance, "but what about the good kids, kids like you and me, for example?"

"Okay, first off, I'm not a good kid. I resent that implication. I'm a thug through and through, sorry to disappoint you but _man_ do you need to touch up on your people reading skills," Kurt said, agitated as he began to got into the discussion rather heatedly. "And second of all, of course there'd be innocent kids in the mix. Whoever's casting the show from behind the scenes, I bet they've got a whole set of tropes to fill. A bunch of kids with roles to play. You've got your psychos and your murderers, you gotta throw in a bunch of cannon fodder for them to prey on. You got your average high school couple, your homecoming queen, the class clown, a bunch of prissy cheerleaders, the preps, the goth and the emo kids, the whole deal. People pay good money to watch kids like me kill kids like you."

"Well that's just not fair, we don't do shit and we gotta end up killed because of people like... like Leon and Rodney," Andrew said, barely managing to catch himself in time. "Simply because we share the same class? I know life's not supposed to be a fair deal, and we ought to just get used to all the tough shit they keep dumping on us, but man, that just really freaking sucks."

"It does," Kurt said simply. "It really, really does."

"If I ever get out of here, I'd like to find whatever fucker's behind this game. Throw him and fifty of his mates right on this here island, give them all shit weapons to work with and see how long they last," Andrew said, feeling seriously pissed off.

"Might want to cool off the rhetoric before the fuckers you're talking about make you eat your words through a hole in your neck," Kurt advised with a nod at his collar.

"Ugh, it's just, I know it's totally moronic to, but, gah, just, I don't know," Andrew blathered incoherently, twisting the plastic bottle in his hands.

Pausing to toss the bottle from hand to hand, he calmed a bit and went on, "It's just, I'm pissed, you know? We don't deserve this. _I_ don't deserve this."

"Tough shit," Kurt deadpanned as he closed his eyes.

Hearing Andrew babble on in the background almost incoherently, Kurt felt himself begin to drift away. The mental and physical trauma had been more than taxing, and if circumstances were any different, he would be just about ready to call it quits. He knew his limits, and this was already far beyond his comfort zone. Not that he had much of a choice, if he wanted to keep _hanging 'round the mortal plane_, as Andrew had put it. Then again, maybe his time was up soon, you never knew. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, he was destined to get Jessica and Chet pissed off, blow off some steam with Andrew, then die in a barn. _Hey, that's life, that's what all the people say. Life sucks... and then you die._

As Andrew paused in his tirade, the boy struggled to focus on what had been said.

"So what I'm saying, I guess," Andrew said as he struggled to find the words, "is that this whole random lot drawing deal, this shouldn't be happening. Hell, the whole concept of Battle Royale shouldn't be happening, in an ideal world. But here's what we get, a demonic government that doesn't care about its people for the slightest."

"Tone down the revolutionary speech, fuckwad. You might not care for your life, but I'd hate to lose you to a collar detonation."

"Sorry, got a bit carried away. Point is, this just isn't fair, not for me, not for you, not for Nadine," Andrew said with bitterness coming off every word, even as the other boy lunged forward and thrust the concealed blade slickly across his throat. He made not an additional sound as he went down swiftly, so overwhelmingly surprised that he did not react in the slightest. Sprawled on the derelict floor with his upper body outstretched, his last expression on earth was of slight shock – and in a way resigned, as though he had seen it coming. _Impossible._

Though Andrew went quickly, the blood did not cease flowing out of his severed carotid and jugulars until a full minute later. The boy didn't know how he had died, but he hoped it had been merciful for him. Perhaps he had gone into shock as blood spewed quickly out of his slit throat, bleeding out after several stunned moments. Perhaps the cut had gone in a bit deeper than intended, carving into his spinal cord and destroying his brain stem activity. As long as he went quickly...

He had done what was necessary. It was a defense mechanism really. From deep within Kurt's psyche, he had sensed the opportunity lurking. He had recognized how Andrew would have to be dispatched of. And so he had resurfaced and done the deed. _Pitiful, Kunibert, but it had to be done._

"Thanks for the stitches, at least," the boy spoke as he licked the inside of his cheeks.

There was a part in the boy's mind (the other part of him, perhaps) that recognized a shade of mournfulness. While he would not have regretted the necessary murders of any other contestant – Blondie and Blondo came to mind – Andrew was a good one. There was some sense that Kunibert might have taken a liking to the other fellow. Ultimately it mattered little, because Andrew's inclusion in the game necessitated his murder. There was no way around the deal, he would have to accept that.

Getting to work, the boy began collecting the scattered supplies around the farmyard barn. He methodically removed the screwdriver from Andrew's belt, adding it to the hunting knife sheathed in his own. There were still an adequate amount of MREs and water remaining in Andrew's supplies, and he took those as well. He also took the sewing kit, reasoning that what the amateurish surgeon lacked in finesse might come loose sooner than he figured. _Could use to have some way of fixing yourself up should it come to that._

Which left the simple matter of his foot. Getting away from Chet and Jessica had been troublesome enough on all fours, and the boy wasn't sure if he could deal with going such long distances on a painfully broken foot again. All this crap that had been lying around sure seemed useful, though. Thinking quick, he grabbed a rusted spade and cracked it heavily against the derelict wall. One, two, three swipes, and the metal blade came flying loose, leaving the metal handle in his grip. Not wanting to dull his hunting knife unnecessarily, he used the screwdriver to splice the spade's handle with a prosthetic leg that had been lying in the corner. _Rudimentary crutch, but should be workable. Now comes the hard part... Kunibert, be thankful you're not around. You wouldn't be able to take it._

Grabbing his twisted foot with one hand and the four workable fingers on the other, the boy mentally prepared himself the best he could. _Hold on, something's missing. Right._

He took a handful of wooden sticks from what might have been a heap of expended firewood, and placed it in between his broken and missing teeth. _Alright-y-o, here goes nothing for real._

With an audible crack, the boy forcefully rotated his foot until the broken remnants wrapped inside his flesh was sufficiently returned to the originally intended position. The pain was excruciating, far worse than anything a person was meant to feel without benefit of anesthesia, but somehow he endured it. Biting down hard on the twigs as he twisted the broken bone around, he managed to get his foot to resemble something that could land flatly on a ground surface. All the while he screamed mutedly into the stick he had bitten on, hoping it would take his mind off the pain if not alleviate it. _Hurts, hurts, hurts, but don't scream! Don't scream, or you'll rip all your stitches out in one go, and that's gonna hurt ten thousand times worse!_

"Shit!" he moaned as he finally let go of his foot and spat the stick out.

_That hurt like hell, really, but it's functional now at least. Still a long way from being able to walk on two feet, but with the crutch you can at least manage some degree of proper motion._

Swiping grime and flecks of Andrew's congealed blood off his bare chest, the boy turned his remaining attention to the only thing that had to be accomplished before he could vacate the derelict barn. It wasn't precisely something that had to be done, but all the same it felt like he had to do it. _Reason would say you should leave now, but you and Kunibert always defy logic, don't you? So let's get this over with._

He picked up the metal liquor flask and sloshed it around, figuring out just how much whiskey was left inside. _Just enough, wonderful._

Using his functional hand, he uncapped the flask and tipped it over, spilling what little is left onto the dusty ground. With his other hand, he closed Andrew's eyelids. _This is to you, my unlikely friend. Hope the underworld treats you and your girl well._

A single drop of whiskey circled the rim of the flasks opening, and he let it fall on the tip of his tongue.

With a twisted smile, the boy thought idly to himself. _Now let's get this bad boy on the road._


	21. Hour 16: 37 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 16**

**37 Contestants Remainings**

"They're not coming," he said wearily.

"Just give me several more minutes," she argued. "They're bound to be here any second, I know they're both coming. I'd hate to start without them being here."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Micah Webster, a.k.a. Boy #6, as he regarded the girl quizzically.

"Because they gave me their word, and they're my friends," Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #16, replied with all the confidence in the world.

Despite her positive demeanor, inwardly she was beginning to harbor the slightest seed of doubt. She had started this pitiful attempt at a rebellion on good faith, praying that her friends would carry through and put in their collective efforts. It was a half-assed set up at best, but even she had to admit that a half-assed attempt was better than simply giving in. Micah, the resident video game console expert, had assured her that he had what it took to shatter the government's deplorable attempts at a digital fortification around the Battle Royale mainframe. For a while she had doubted him, but she reasoned that she didn't have much of a choice. It was either putting her trust in him like she had hoped her friends would put theirs in her, or concede defeat before her resistance even began.

It was plainly unthinkable, not when they had already set their plan into motion. Using their five allotted text messages, they had contacted as many of their closest friends as a reasonable degree of risk would allow. Phoebe, Nicholas, Frank, Joanne, Elijah, Donna, Alyssa, and Hank, together they would make a miniature armament of ten well-armed people. At least, it would be if things had worked out as intended. Instead, only half of those people had shown up, though most of them had brought along a ragtag group of misfits.

Her closest friend and confidant Elijah Ricks, a.k.a. Boy #21, had brought along the diminutive Alicia Kerr, a.k.a. Girl #21. He claimed to have rescued her from one of the psychos out there, but the details were a little smudged. Still, Jolene was simply glad to see Elijah again.

Frank Greer, a.k.a. Boy #18, had shown up accompanied by the cheerleader duo of Nicole Reiniger, a.k.a. Girl #14, and Holly Richmond, a.k.a. Girl #15. Given that those two girls had Frank tied and standing in line of their two guns, Jolene was liable to react on instinct upon seeing the three teenagers. Holding her shovel high, she would have clobbered Holly into submission if Frank hadn't hoarsely cried for her to stop. Those two apparently meant no great harm, and after a quick negotiation were quite willing to set Frank free and join their efforts. Truthfully, it had been one of the most pathetic hostage-taking scenarios that she had ever seen, and she was thankful for that.

That was the extent of her influence, as Alyssa and Donna hadn't even bothered to appear. That was the most peculiar thing, as Alyssa had definitely responded to her text with an elatedly affirmative message. The girl had written that she was shacking up with Brooke, and would be there as soon as she could. Donna on the other hand hadn't responded, so Jolene figured there likely wasn't any point in placing her hopes there. _Donna, she was never one of the gang, unsurprising that she wouldn't trust us. Alyssa though... did something happen to her?_

Micah, on the other hand, had two of his trusted friends appear as well. Phoebe and Joanne hadn't appeared, which lent to his ever increasing worries that something bad had happened to them while they were on the way here.

Nicholas Dillon, a.k.a. Boy #5, and his close friend Marla Thompson, a.k.a. Girl #18, were good people by most standards, but in a Battle Royale standards tended not to be a very good judge of character. Marla had killed, according to the morning announcement, a fact that she had all too reluctantly admitted to. Nick insisted that she had only done so in self defense – he claimed he had been there to witness the scene. In all fairness, since it was Lee that she had killed (the same Lee that had murdered Nadine, she reminded herself), Jolene was willing to give the girl a bit of leeway. The Walther P99 pistol that she could add to their arsenal was fairly good persuasion as well.

Hank Norton, a.k.a. Boy #17, the school nurse's aide, had shown up with Alexis Brightwell, a.k.a. Girl #5, in tow just under twenty minutes ago. Both of them had readily offered to pit in their respective skills, which according to Micah at least were invaluable. Hank had sufficient medical experience to take care of most wounds that they hopefully wouldn't be saddled with, and Alexis was a part-time mechanic that could help Micah take apart the collars.

Those two were currently huddled in one of the bedrooms of the cabin, studying the three unattached collars that they had with them. Previously belonging to Paige, Bonnie, and George respectively, they had taken nearly two hours in retrieving the bodies and bringing them back to their headquarters. With Micah's assigned sickle, Jolene's foraged shovel, as well as a tremendous deal of effort, they managed to messily decapitate the decomposing bodies and remove the collars. Micah and Alexis were currently attempting to peel open Bonnie's collar using the sickle and the ice pick (a weapon that Nick had taken from Lee's corpse), though with the menace of a potential explosion, neither were willing to chance forcing it apart.

The rest were occupying themselves with various pastimes in the lounge. They all knew what they were putting themselves in, they all knew what would be expected of them (_mostly knew_, Jolene amended as she thought of the two dim-witted cheerleaders), but they still needed somebody to take charge. A leader to tell them what had to be done, how it should be done, and all the unnecessary details. Elijah, being somewhat of a natural leader, had been a great help. Still, there were the others...

Walking into the cabin's lounge, Jolene was not surprised to see the group mulling in disguised tension. In the center of the room, Elijah, Hank, Alicia, and Frank were engaged in a half-hearted game of Texas Hold 'em, while Nicole kicked back in a chair and watched the game with little interest. At the corner of the room, Holly and Marla were tossing tennis balls against the bathroom wall, having foraged them from Nicholas's bag as his randomly assigned weapon. The most outwardly nervous of the bunch was Nick, who had been steadily pacing the room ever since he had arrived and settled in.

"What's the situation?" Nick asked nervously as he looked up.

"Just stay put, okay? Not for very much longer," Jolene answered as he walked over to the coffee table, where the poker game was still ongoing. "Sorry to disturb you high rollers for a second. Elijah, a word?"

He looked up to the girl who had served as his vice president while he had headed the student council. Placing his cards face down on the glass table, he said quickly to the rest of the poker players, "Alright, just count me in as folding 'til I'm back, 'kay?"

Elijah stretched out his aching legs and got up from his seated position on the floor. Walking with the girl over to the side, he leaned halfway against the cabin wall. Scratching the back of his head, he asked idly, "What's up?"

"I'm thinking we ought to get started on this," Jolene whispered as she bit her lip, aware that Nick was pricking his ears in an attempt to eavesdrop their conversation. "It's been a while since we've all gotten here, I reckon if Alyssa or Donna show up we can let them know about what's going on later. Right now, everybody's getting antsy. I don't think it's a good idea letting them remain in this condition."

"Alright, so do what you have to," Elijah said with a smile. "You don't have to consult me you know, this here's your show from now on."

"Don't kid," Jolene said with a stern glare. "I'm seriously getting freaked out. These kids are depending on us to save their lives."

"I know," Elijah admitted. "To be honest, part of me's hoping you've got a miracle solution too."

"Well, I don't," she deadpanned.

"I know that too," he said. "Look, let's just get this over with? I think – I _think_ – anybody who's here probably already knows to some extent what's going on. Alexis has already thrown her hands in, she's fiddling with the collars with Micah so she's got to know what this entails at least."

"I guess you're right," Jolene said nervously. "Can you gather everybody around? I'm gonna start this off."

"Alright, J, just remember, it's your show," Elijah said in high spirits as he winked at her.

"There's a reason I'm just vice, y'know," she muttered under her breath as she wandered towards the bedroom.

"Game's over, guys, Jolene's got something to say," Elijah said as he tossed his cards out in the open.

With various sounds of disappointment and uneasiness, the rest of the players (save for Alicia, who had long since been knocked out of the game and had been watching Frank play over his shoulder) threw their cards one-by-one in the pile as well. Hearing his words, Holly, Marla, and Nicole got up as well, the three girls clustering together out of some strange form of female solidarity. As Nick finally stopped the incessant pacing and went over to sit on the couch, Jolene walked right past him and popped her head into the bedroom.

The scene inside was unsettling to say the least. It looked like something right out of a horror movie, with the heavyset Micah and the relatively slimmer Alexis gathered around a red-stained metal circlet on the bed. The bedspread had been saturated with a moderate amount of blood, some of which still stubbornly clung to the metal surface of the collar. Micah had been attempting to pry open the side of the collar using the sharp edge of the sickle. By the intense expression on Alexis's face, their efforts so far were to no avail.

"Hey, Micah, Alexis," she said curtly as they turned to look at her. "Can you spare some time? There's something I wanna say."

"Sure," he replied. "You ready?"

"Yeah, I guess," Jolene said, though honestly she was wondering the same thing herself.

It spoke a lot about how little progress they have made on disarming the collars when Micah and Alexis immediately abandoned the project at hand, tossing their respective tools on the bedspread. Jolene felt another morsel of hope sink deeper in her heart. She recognized just how impossible this task was going to be, yet somehow she was still going to undertake it. _What does that say about me? Brainless, non compos mentis, suicidal?_

With the ten survivors of the group gathered around the lounge, Jolene tried to force a smile to stay on her face.

This could go wrong all too easily. They had insisted that whoever walked through the doors of the cabin to set down their weapons over on the island counter in the kitchen, and few had insisted on keeping their original weapons. Alexis had initially refused to part with her Smith & Wesson, but after some persuasion on Hank's part, they were able to pry the pistol from her fingers. Frank had retrieved his Colt Python after the cheerleaders agreed to give their guns up. Like Alexis, Nick was reluctant to give up the Walther PPK, but Marla seemed quite gracious to offer the gun to their services. The rest of the weapons had been gathered, accounted for, and laid out on the granite surface. Marla's and Alexis's guns, the remaining pistol that Hank had been assigned with, the Benelli shotgun that Nicole had relinquished, Elijah's metal baseball bat, a small wood-cutting hatchet they found outside the cabin, the steel blade they took from Paige's body, as well as the shovel and knitting needles that Jolene had gathered had been arranged tidily for whoever would need to use them. Alicia's defibrillator kit was stacked to the side, though its capabilities as a weapon was doubtful at best.

The remaining, lesser armed youths were huddled in various places around the living room. Alicia and Holly were perched cross-legged on the floor. Hank sat rather comfortably in the second armchair. Aside from the standing Frank and Elijah, the rest were squeezed onto the long couch. With a select few exceptions, most looked to her with a mixture of confusion and anticipation. Micah and Elijah were in the know, so to speak, and appeared a little less bemused than the rest. Strangely enough, Alicia didn't look all too concerned about where things might be heading, instead whistling lowly as she looked at Jolene with bright eyes.

Alexis, Hank, Nicole, Holly, Frank, Nick and Marla, they all looked similarly frightened by the unknown prospect of things ahead of them.

Standing before the ten other contestants in a baggy-sleeved sweater, Jolene could feel sweat beading where perspiration should not be formed in a perfect world. It all felt so surreal, like it was something out of a made to TV movie instead of her life. _This is it, this is really it. They're all depending on you._

"I'm going to cut the rhetorical bullshit and skip straight to the part that matters," Jolene said as she turned around. "I should start out by telling you that this is not just a game. Some of you here may have already found that out first hand, but for the clarity of the entire group I'll state it again. This is even more serious than just being in the Battle Royale, because by being here, you agree to fighting not just your friends and your enemies. By staying in this room and joining our efforts, you're going to take on one of the most powerful entities in this post-twenty-first century world. You're going to rebel against the USA government.

"I also want to say, there's no name or slogan to our group. No revolutionary acronym. There's none of all that, because this isn't just fun and games. This isn't student council or cheerleading or electronics club. If you lose sight of that for just one second, you will die, I can tell you that for certain.

"The purpose of our group, as our common interest would indicate, is to escape from this game. That, first and foremost, is our objective. If we take down the system in the process, that's just an added bonus, but just remember – our primary goal is to escape."

She paused as Nicole raised her hand. "Questions at the end, please."

"I don't want to pretend that we're going to have much of a chance at success. In all likelihood, we're going to die while trying to escape. We're going to be denigrated as political dissenters and cursed for ages. All of this is assuming we can get far enough to accomplish a fraction of what we want to. I can honestly say if you grab your own guns and head back out there, you'll have a better chance of living than you do sticking with us.

"But I'm appealing to you as a person. If you have an ounce of morality in you, you'll recognize that killing off all your friends starting with everybody in this room might be the easy way out, but you'll never forgive yourself for doing that. I trust that all of you are good people, if you aren't then you wouldn't have responded or come along in the first place.

"So before I continue further, I must ask you – are you with us or against us?"

A moment of silence allowed her question to sink in before Micah leapt to his feet. The heavyset boy was grim, but he did appear to be determined. "Hell, I got you riled up in the first place, didn't I? Of course I'm with you."

"You know where my allegiance lies," Elijah said with a charming grin.

Alicia chimed in, "I'm in this too, no matter what."

"You know I'll always side with you guys," Frank said nonchalantly.

"Anything that gives me a chance to take down the fuckers behind this," Hank said with a bit of arrogance.

"I agree, I'm not giving in to the game," said Nicole firmly.

Holly spoke up next, "I'm in if Nicole is."

Alexis was next. "I still have my doubts, but for all intents and purposes you can count me as in."

"I'm with Alexis, I'm in but you'll have to convince me why this has a chance in hell of working," Nick, ever the skeptic, piped up.

Marla was the last to put in her views, and all eyes turned to her as she spoke up, "I... don't know. This doesn't sound very smart to me, but I can see where you're all coming from. What I think... What I think is, if this means I don't have to face the blood and killing outside, then I'm in this to the end. So, I'm in!"

"By my count, that makes it unanimous," Jolene said with greater confidence, "which means from this moment on, we're all in this together, for better or for worse, come hell or high water. From now on, whatever we do, we do for the greater good of what we hope to accomplish. I don't deny the possibility that one or more of us may have to make sacrifices. But just keep him mind this is what we'll have to accomplish if we want to get out of here alive. If we want to have a life beyond this Battle Royale.

"So now that we're all on the same page, I'm gonna have to ask Micah to explain his plan."

"Right," he said nervously as he stepped up and took the spot that Jolene had occupied. "Before I let you on what my plan for escape is, we gotta set a few grounds rules first. Explain out everything I know, stuff we have to be cautious about, so none of us accidentally set off anything.

Nudging his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, Micah went on, "Right, the first thing you need to know is, more like remember, really, there are people monitoring us at all times. There are cameras in every crook and cranny, microphones all over the place, and Alexis and I just confirmed that even the collars we were are equipped with two-way transmitting microphones. I'm not sure exactly but I'm fairly positive that they're also tracking the text messages we type or send out on the phones."

"Wait, that means..." Holly practically exclaimed, "they already know what we're up to!"

"That's right, but don't worry," Micah said quickly as panic began diffusing through the room. "It doesn't matter that they know, because at this stage there's nothing they can do to us."

"Not entirely true," Hank said sarcastically as he gestured at the collar around his neck.

"Right, right," Micah conceded, "there's nothing they _will_ do to us, at least not yet. We've got eleven people here, possibly more if the other four are still on their way. That's more than a quarter of the people remaining in the game. They're not going to blast all of us to high hell in one go just because we've been sitting around and talking, that's not good for their ratings."

"Alright, let's say you're right," Nick said hesitantly. "Let's say they aren't going to blow up our collars just yet, so... what next? What's this escape plan?"

"Okay, just settle down and listen up," Micah said as he gestured with his hands. With a great deal of reluctance (and some help from Jolene and Elijah), the nervous din abated to mostly silence.

"So, here's the situation as we currently know it. If any of us here accidentally let on the few bits of information we have and the government dudes find out what we've been planning, then it's all for nothing. Whatever we do, they'll be one step ahead of us. That's why from now on, we can't speak of whatever we're going to do, not unless it's absolutely necessary. Now, I haven't checked to see if there's a blind spot from the cameras in this place, but for now if we need to communicate about the plan..."

He pulled out the government issued pen that came with their maps and compasses, as well as a pad of paper. "Use these. I found the paper pads in the drawers, I'm sure there's enough to last three days if we use 'em conservatively. If you're writing or reading, do so out of sight of the cameras. Darkness isn't good, I'm sure they're equipped with night vision, so get something to cover up. Shield the note with your hands, hide under the covers, whatever it takes to keep people from reading 'em. And destroy the note once you're done reading."

"Can't we just break the cameras or whatever?" Alicia asked. "I mean, it'd be much less troublesome..."

"Not unless you want to piss off the guys in charge and turn this to a danger zone," Alexis pointed out. "For all we know, they might even get pissed enough to just detonate the collar of whoever's responsible."

"That's right," Micah said. "That's why until we can find a better means of communication, this is what we'll have to settle for."

"Okay, sounds good," Frank said doubtfully, "but what's the plan then? You can't expect us to follow along if all you're saying is that you can't tell us."

"Hold your horses, I'll let you on in a second," Micah said tiredly as he rubbed the spot between his eyes. "Right, I'm just gonna say this once so listen up, okay? You all know we're on an island, and it would seem all manner of escape has been secured and removed from the place. There are boats around the coast, but it's not likely that we can get through the patrol boats without each of us being shot a dozen times. According to the map, there's a small airport to the north, but then again I'm not riding a lot of hope on that."

"So what does that leave us?" Nicole asked, a bit irritated.

"Nothing, or it would seem. But I've got some... connections, let's just leave it at that. If we can get a computer and secure a connection outside, I'm fairly sure I can disable our collars and the entire surveillance system, black out all their cameras and microphones, then we can all get the hell out of dodge," Micah said hurriedly as he scribbled on the pad, using his hands to shield whatever he had been writing from the cameras around the room.

Folding the note into a small square, he handed it to the nearest person, who happened to be Alicia. She received it quizzically, unfolding it in the cradle of his hands as Micah beckoned her to pass it along.

"Right now Alexis and I are working on the collars, we're positive that given a few hours we can crack it open and find out what they're using to transmit the signals. Once I hack into their mainframe I can disable it, and we can pry these motherfucker off. It'll all be smooth sailing from that point onward, but I need to get a line out of here first. I know I haven't let on much and believe me, it's all for the sake of caution. There's a chance we can get it all done, but it's gonna be incredibly difficult, and I need to know you're all still with me."

Not everybody spoke at once, but they did manage to convey the intended message. Everybody in the same room had identical minds for all intents and purposes. For better or for worse, they were going to do this.

"Great, we're all on the same page then," Micah said gladly.

Receiving the note back from Alicia as a wide-eyed Holly passed it back to her, Micah opened it up for a final time in the palm of his hands. The message read in his usual scrawl, _WILD 7_, and below that, a single name:_ MANDY LORRES_. As he thought about the woman whose acquaintance he happened to make and how her involvement might just make his entire plan workable, Micah couldn't help but let a genuine smile cross his face.

"We need to start getting shit done, then," Jolene said authoritatively as she directed the rest to get on with their missions. "First order of business, we need people to stand guard. It's a small cabin in a large forest, but there's still the possibility of people with bad intents coming across us. If we don't get some sort of patrol set up, we might as well be sitting ducks out here."

"I'm on it," Alicia volunteered quite earnestly. "I've been reading the manual, so operating the gun if it comes to that is not a problem."

"Great, thanks Alicia, help yourself to one of the pistols. The rest of us will come up with some kind of schedule so we can switch shifts every hour or so. There's also a back door that we'll need watched," Jolene said as she did some mental calculations. "Alright, Frank, can you stand watch for this shift?"

"If you say so, m'lady," Frank said serenely.

"Thanks a lot," Jolene replied. "Micah and Alexis will be tackling those collars in one of the side rooms, and since a great part of our plan depends on Micah having a computer, and also seeing that we've been unable to find one so far, we'll have to find ourselves one somehow."

"How many people are you thinking?" Elijah asked as he cracked his knuckles.

"Four, maybe five. I want the majority of us to stay here at our headquarters, but too few people heading out there might prove dangerous," Jolene said. "I'm going, obviously, so we still want two or three more people."

"Hold on, I think you should stay here," Micah interjected. "I think I'd better come along. I need to make sure we find something we can work with, otherwise it'd be a pointless waste of time. And since the two of us are the firestarters here I think at least one should stay and hold down the fort."

"Okay... that sounds fair," Jolene considered. "So that's Elijah and Micah, any other takers?"

"Sorry, but heading back out there's just really... I'm just not up to it," Marla said quietly.

"Ahh, what the hell. Count me in," Hank said as he leapt up from the couch. "If we gotta get this mofo on the road, then I guess we better start doing shit, right?"

"Alright, I'm in too in that case. I want out of here as much as the rest of you guys, and if this is what it takes, I'll do it," Nicole said emphatically.

"Thanks Hank, and you sure you want to do this, cheerleader? Alright then," Jolene said as she counted out the four people. "Elijah, Micah, Hank, and Nicole. Do this well, okay? And stay in contact. I want to hear from you guys periodically. If you're still not back by nine, text me, then every six hours let me know how you're doing. We'll know you're okay from the announcements so that should give us an update every three hours. If something happens, let me know as soon as it's safe to. Oh, also, I hate to say this but remember, keep Micah alive at all costs, okay? He's our lifeline out of here. And remember, stay clear of other people, we can't afford to trust too openly. Only let on what you have to if you're absolutely sure they're okay, and don't say too much. Don't start fights."

"You got it," Elijah said as he grabbed his phone from next to the weapon arsenal, where Jolene had gathered all of their cell phones and arranged them by the amount of usage still remaining.

"I've got a map that's got the likely spots marked out that I'll give to you guys later. Alexis, you're gonna be working on the collars alone until they get back, so make sure you know what you're doing before Micah leaves, alright?"

"I'm perfectly capable, trust me," Alexis said with a bit of sass. "I'm this close to taking it apart, so give me several hours and I'll have most of its inner workings marked out."

"Nice. The rest of you... come up with some kind of shift schedule for the patrols. Those of you who don't know how to operate a pistol, read the manuals and learn how to. I want everybody here capable of firing one in two hours, can you do that?" Jolene asked tensely, to the response of mostly nods from the remaining people.

The remainder of the group quickly began occupying themselves with various efforts. It quickly became clear that Holly was the only person remaining who was completely clueless about all of their guns. Even Nicole, who had been somewhat of an airhead up until that point, had a rudimentary grasp of how Hank's Beretta worked. While Marla went over to retrieve the manual that came with her Walther P99 and prepared to school the cheerleader, the rest of the group quickly came up with the patrol schedule.

Meanwhile, the four members of what Nicole had cheerily dubbed as the computer retrieval team immediately set about preparing themselves for the upcoming travel. Though the possibility of rain still seemed rather distant at this point, they considered the potential weather not a trifle matter. There was every chance that they wouldn't be able to return until the second day, and the prospects of lasting an entire night out in the elements was not something that amused any of them. While the boys were able to find windbreakers that fitted their frames stored away in one of the closets, Nicole managed to make do with a plastic tarp that she quickly converted to a poncho.

"Home ec," she explained with a smile as she wrapped the fabric around her shoulders.

The plastic pouches that contained their maps and compasses hung from their necks. Elijah had a mobile phone with its five message limit intact, though each were given an additional phone that gave them the chance to text for help should things go wrong. Their pencil flashlights were hanging from the pouches as well, and just in case they had two extras stored away.

Elijah, Micah, and Hank bore the group's packs, with the physically weaker Nicole carrying only her weapons. The boys' packs were stuffed with as much food as they deemed necessary. Most were the MREs and bottled water that had come with their packs, but some of the tinned food from the cabin found their way inside as well. They also carried all the ammunition for their guns.

They had taken whatever weapons they might need, reasoning that since there was a much larger chance of them encountering a threat than the group that remained at the base, it was better to be overly armed than the alternative. Hank was armed with his originally assigned Beretta, currently neatly holstered where he could grab it at a moment's notice. He also wielded the hatchet that they had found wedged in the door to the firewood shed. Moving through the woods with all their weaponry and provisions would not be easy, and the hatchet made the hindering vegetation much less of a problem than they could be. Though the majority of the medical supplies he had gathered were left in the hands of Jolene and the others, he did carry some rudimentary bandages, disinfectants, and painkillers just in case anything happened.

Elijah could reasonably use the shotgun with decent proficiency, but the weapon he favored was the aluminum baseball bat that he had chosen to hang on to. Instead, the shotgun was strapped across his back, while his pack hung rather loosely from one shoulder.

Micah was the most protected of the group, having received the bulletproof vest that Jolene had stripped off. Though he had vehemently protested against that, he was reminded that his survival was the most essential out of the four of them. Their entire plan was balanced on one person and that was him. Under their insistence, he had put on the bulletproof vest underneath the windbreaker. As well, he had taken Jolene's rusted shovel and the Smith & Wesson that Alexis had surrendered.

Nicole was the only one of the group who did not have a gun, but as she admittedly knew little in the way of firearms, that was not a problem to her. Instead, she had taken Micah's sickle (which he had deemed useless in prying open the collars) as well as the knitting needles. Although both were melee weapons and the girl did not intend to get in any close quarter fights, she thought that the presence of the other three was sufficient to keep her safe.

That left the other seven with the remaining weapons: the Walther P99, the Colt Python, the ice pick, the paper cutter blade, as well as the defibrillator kit. Jolene was a bit alarmed by what little remained of their arsenal, but conceded that it was a necessary albeit temporary sacrifice. As long as the guards remained vigilant, they wouldn't have much need for the rest.

As the four prepared to leave, Jolene had a final thing to say. She beckoned the video game nerd to the side.

"You did fine," Micah said comfortingly as he placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Everybody's in this I think, so there's not much to worry about besides holding the fort down. We'll come back soon, and we'll really begin cracking this motherfucker wide open. I'm sure of it."

"That's... not what I was thinking," Jolene said as she bit her lip. "I'm scared."

"We all are," he admitted, "but I really think this is going to work, at least the way we intend it to. Trust me on this."

"That's not what I meant," Jolene replied as she averted his gaze. "I'm scared what's gonna happen. We lied, Micah. These people were riding their hopes on us and we lied right to their faces."

"Considering the circumstances, it's the only thing we can do," Micah said uneasily as he looked around, fearful that somebody could overhear their conversation. "It was either this or simply die without doing anything. You don't want them to win, do you? Neither do I. That's why we have to do this."

"I doomed them," she said helplessly. "We're all going to die, and it's all because of me."

"We were all going to die regardless," Micah replied with a grimace. "This changes nothing."

"I just wish it could really happen," Jolene whispered. "The things you said about escaping... Wouldn't it be great if all that were true?"

"Yes it would," Micah said with a faraway look. "Yeah, it really would."


	22. Hour 17: 37 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 17**

**37 Contestants Remaining**

He had given her a damn chance in all of this, and yet she had still gone and gotten herself killed. Among other things, this filled Rodney O'Neal, a.k.a. Boy #19, with incredible sadness. It wasn't that he had expected her to actually win the game, but hearing that she had already been killed by the second announcement... that saddened him. She hadn't even managed to live twelve hours after she woke up in this game. That pageant bitch had killed her, just like that. Damn. And it had to happen after he'd gone through all that trouble to give her his assigned weapon. He hoped she went down with a fight, at least.

As the boy walked quite flippantly down the main street of the Oak Ridge Amusement Park, he was comforted in the knowledge that he wasn't entirely unarmed. Though he had given the girl his sole weapon in the game's early hours, he had quickly remedied the situation with a little improvisation.

He had found several dozen glass bottles in a milk crate just outside of a peaceful little café. Using those and a rubber hose, he managed to siphon the gasoline from three or four cars in the car park. Molotov cocktails, quick and dirty weapons when it got down to it. Just light one and hurl it, guaranteed fire and explosion to all those unfortunate enough to be caught in its fire.

With three of the gasoline-filled bottles hanging from his belt and the rest stashed away in his pack, Rodney confidently made his way around the park.

He knew another announcement would be coming in less than an hour. Though he loathed hearing Julie Winnfield's singsong voice so exuberantly count out how many of his classmates had died horrible deaths, there was one thing he could not deny. The announcements gave him information. Not simply the list of eliminations in the past six hours, but also their killers and what weapons they were killed with. This gave him the knowledge of which people were dangerous. As well, this gave him the knowledge of which people to seek out.

Rodney knew in full conscience that he was a killer. Or to put it in more precise terms, he had been a killer. He might have killed before, but he had resolved not to do so again. Not in this game. Whatever was in his past was beyond him now. There were others, though... other killers. As long as they remained legitimate threats, the senseless murders wouldn't stop. It seemed almost unbelievably simple. If he were to stop people from murdering each other, all he had to do was take down the killers before they found their victims.

In actuality, the boy knew that line of thinking was overly simplistic, but that was what he chose to hang on to.

It hadn't been easy though. Whether it was sheer chance or not, he hadn't encountered anybody playing the game. Earlier he had come across another contestant, a kid he recognized was named Jeremy, but not wanting to get in a confrontation with an innocent contestant he had instead taken an alternate route. He knew from the reports that Jeremy hadn't killed. They weren't accurate to the latest hour, but he had seen Jeremy's clothes and they were free of blood. In all likelihood, he had either been seeking shelter or a friend, and so Rodney allowed him to pass.

He wondered quite genuinely if everybody was already gone from the park. There had to be several fellows still in the hiding, but he had encountered very few people so far. Aside from Gail and Jeremy, he had only seen three or four people at a distance, all of which had disappeared by the time he managed to catch up.

_Time's a-wasting_, a voice in the back of his mind reminded him. _This vigilante business is great and all, but you've still got a mission to accomplish._

That's right, the mission. Something that he simply couldn't allow to slip out of his mind. To be honest, it wasn't so much a mission as something he hoped to accomplish in his limited lifespan. He knew there was every chance that he would die before getting it done, but he simply couldn't deny himself the chance to try. It would be all too pa-

Acting on instinct, Rodney whirled around and pulled free one of the unlit Molotov cocktails he had attached to his tool belt, smashing it over something solid. The person behind him had reacted with similar speed, dodging the retaliation with a graceful spin. Instead of smashing the bottle over her head as Rodney had intended, he had only managed to send glass and gasoline showering all over the ground. With her ice ax outstretched, Regina Crosby, a.k.a. Girl #7, regarded her opponent with a look of contention.

"Nice reflexes," she practically snarled as she swung her ice ax in the air. In any other light, Rodney would not have been able to match her face to a name, but give that he had been thinking about her for some time, he found the recognition unbelievably simple. _The pageant bitch. The one that had murdered Gail._

She lifted her blood-stained weapon high, but dared not to charge him. Of course, Rodney was a physically imposing figure. Though she had the strength and reflexes of a practiced gymnast, she knew it could not compare to his brute strength. She was playing it careful, but he didn't have to.

Lighting the remaining Molotov cocktails in his belt and sending both flying, he aimed to coat the girl in burning gasoline. Instead, she twisted away with unbelievable grace, dancing between the two projectiles and managing to escape their explosion radius. She did not entirely escape the fire however, and a wild lick of flame nearly ignited her blouse.

With great fury, she swiped the ice ax in a wide and low arc, slamming the blunt end of the weapon against Rodney's shin and getting him to fall to one knee in pain.

With no time to pull out the rest of his Molotov cocktails, Rodney instead swung his pack at the dangerous girl, impacting her with the entire weight of a dozen gasoline-filled bottles. The incredibly laden pack slammed heavily into her side, knocking her to the ground and sending the ice ax flying out of her grip. Gasoline soaked the olive drab fabric as several Molotov cocktails shattered under the force.

Unarmed and downed, Regina desperately launched a kick aimed at the larger boy's face. Catching her intent before the attack landed, Rodney grasped her by the ankle and bodily swung her across the street. Regina was airborne for the briefest of moments before she crashed into a newspaper stall, skinning the exposed skin of her elbows. With a brutal cry, she struggled to get back up as she saw Rodney charge.

Thankful for her general speed and agility, Regina rolled out of the way just as nearly two hundred pounds of pure muscle charged its way into the remnants of the newspaper stall, sending ink-printed paper and pornographic magazines every which way. Looking quickly to the ice ax she had dropped in the street, Regina grabbed the nearest available weapon – a Stephen King paperback – and hurled it at the boy. The thirteen-hundred-paged doorstopper clipped Rodney in the gut with little effect. Pulling free two more unharmed Molotov cocktails from his pack, the boy showed a gleeful smile that fitted awkwardly on his rugged face.

"Not again!" Regina cried as she cartwheeled out of the way.

With a whoosh of flame, stacks of newspaper exploded into paper-spitting flames as one of the Molotov cocktails exploded in the stall's midst. The other went wide, crashing through the display window and causing a gazelle display in the front of a taxidermy store to burst into massive flames. Bits of the flaming antelope rained down all over both of them.

"Think fast!" Rodney taunted as he sent four more alight Molotov cocktails her way.

As she saw the flames streak across the street, Regina simply dodged the explosive projectiles by throwing herself into the adjacent store, an antiques store that showcased an incredibly offensive display of World War II Memorabilia. Three of the Molotov cocktails exploded near the storefront, successfully igniting a small florist shop further down the road. The fourth sailed wide, smashing into a plume of bonfire in a liquor store across the street and causing what might be the mother of all hellfire. The entire store practically imploded as the flames gushed every which way, sopping up oxygen while breathing out massive quantities of smoke and soot. Waves of heat radiated off the building firestorm, but the two contestants that were prepared to brawl it out in the main street had nothing to fear.

Looking to distract the other boy before he could burn her to death with those ceaseless explosives, Regina snatched a Japanese bayonet out of its scabbard in the ruined display window, whisking the leather sheathe at her opponent. Rodney batted it out of the air with little regard, walking upon the downed girl. Though unarmed, his sheer wrath was an incredible force that sent a chill down Regina's spine.

The girl would not be let herself be intimidated, however. Years of ruthless training and competition on the pageantry circuit had taught her never to let her weaknesses show. With an air of haughtiness, she rose and drew her newly acquired bayonet, its tip aimed squarely at the boy's throat.

"One step closer and I will draw blood," she spoke coldly with steel resolution.

"Funny," Rodney practically taunted, "that was my intent."

He had counted the gunshots as they came, loud and clear throughout the resort island. Not only were there people with guns around here, there were a lot of people with guns around. Either that, or there was someone with a lot of guns. Both possibilities did not fit into his ideal scenario, but if there was one thing that Mallick Sullivan, a.k.a. Boy #11, knew, it was that only the resourceful could successfully diffuse a less-than-ideal situation. Neither he nor his first kill had been assigned a gun. Instead, his issued weapon had been a VHS tape (currently a spool of broken plastic resting in a trash receptacle), while his victim's was a switchblade. The latter was a weapon that he cherished greatly; then again the latter was his only real weapon.

It didn't matter. So they assigned him with one of the game's truly crappiest weapons, but he could make do. Nobody told him he couldn't be resourceful. There were perfectly capable weapons hidden all over the playing field. He would find one of his own before long...

...or so he had thought. Instead, it had been over half a day later when he finally came across another weapon.

Mallick found the body first, led to the scene by its stench. Despite the early stages of decomposition underway, he managed to identify it as a female body of moderate stature, a little chubby by the looks of it. The top half of her head was missing, raggedly torn off by a vigorous force that abraded the exposed gore. The absence of her collar led him to deduce that the girl's cause of death had been collar detonation, not that it required a lot of reasoning. In her outstretched hand was a pistol, emptied of all bullets. Quite obviously, she had been in a gunfight with somebody earlier. Shot off all of her ammunition, and didn't have the time to reload. Maybe one of her adversary's shots just so managed to strike her collar, activating its explosive coils. Maybe in her panic, she had tried to tug it off. Maybe... there were a lot of maybes.

The important point was, the girl was dead now. Her gun was ripe for anybody to take.

A simple pistol, definitely a Luger, Luger P08 if he wasn't mistaken. Nine millimeters. While he had initially desired a Beretta, the Luger was definitely a firearm he could work with. It was definitely a damn sight better than the switchblade, that was for sure.

Methodically, he went through the girl's pack and stripped her of anything that he could use. Rations, water, and her flashlight. By the look of things, she had already used up over half of her assigned ammunition, leaving precious few for him to work with. _Doesn't matter, once you find somebody else you can grasp the upper hand again. The resourceful will emerge victorious._

As he prepared to leave the scene with an idyllic kick to his step, he caught sight of something hidden among the bushes. Not wanting to miss anything, he cautiously prodded it with the tip of his foot. It didn't explode. It didn't even move. As he swatted the leaves aside, he finally had a clear view of the upper half of Alyssa Easton, a.k.a. Girl #24's, head. It was heavily clumped in blood and soil, but he was still able to identify her. She had been one of the good ones. Far from righteous, but he recognized that she had been a law-abiding civilian. It didn't matter though, she had gotten herself killed out of fear or carelessness, and now she would remain nothing but a headless body that stunk to high hell.

Clutching the head by the tip of his fingers, he held up part of Alyssa's head and looked her in her lifeless eyes. Dimly, he wondered whether he owed the girl some semblance of last respect. _She's not a comrade though, she's not one for the cause. Just a casualty that got in the way of justice. It's regretful that it had happened, but… sooner or later it had to happen anyway._

"Did you kill her?" a gravelly feminine voice asked.

He was not startled, after all being surprised in a Battle Royale would not get him very far, but he definitely did not see it coming. The girl walked out with the sunlight shining from behind her, hiding her face in the shadows. In one hand she held a long metal object, quite obviously her weapon.

Mallick tossed the top half of the head to the side, letting it roll a slight way down the slope. He looked up at her, saying quite nonchalantly, "Nope. Didn't do it."

"Huh," she replied as she stepped out of the direct sunlight, revealing herself to be Deborah La Rue, a.k.a. Girl #3, clad quite comfortably in a leather jacket. "Okay, then. If you say so."

"No point in lying though, announcements in less than an hour and you're gonna find out then, won't you?" Mallick asked as he checked his watch. "Assuming you're still alive in… thirty-eight minutes."

"Oh, so you're not opposed to the idea of playing the game?" Deborah said with a slightly twisted smile.

"I'm not, especially not when it comes to scum like you," Mallick replied with clear venom.

"Great, great, this ought to be fun," Deborah said, grinning as she lifted her shotgun.

"Not so much for you," Mallick responded in kind as he whipped the Luger pistol out. He had reloaded the weapon moments before Deborah had emerged, and for that he was thankful.

Simultaneously, both contestants let loose with their firearms as they dodged behind trees and shrubbery. Bullets and buckshot hailed every which way as bushes and tree trunks exploded, filling the air with leaves and shredded bark. Neither of them really managed to hit the other with any degree of accuracy, instead only tearing up the scenery around. Reloading swiftly as his gun emptied, Mallick rolled behind a tree that shielded him from a direct shotgun blast. After letting loose with her remaining shot, Deborah too sought respite behind a different oak.

Slightly out of breath, Mallick yelled, "Give it up, girlie, you're not getting out of this alive!"

Deborah made no reply, instead rapidly chambering new rounds into her shotgun. With a loud _KA-CHUNK_, she swiveled around the tree to face her opponent. Though she had expected to see the boy do the same, she instead found thin air and silence. _What the-_

With visibility on his side, Mallick set off charging toward the girl from behind a nearby bush, knocking her to the ground under his weight. His one hundred and forty pounds notwithstanding, the attack took Deborah by surprise and she fell heavily with the boy on top of him. Mallick brought the Luger pistol down as Deborah struggled to escape his hold, pummeling her about the head with unrelenting force. In different circumstances he might have shot her where she was lying, but on low levels of ammunition and fueled by adrenaline, he neglected to do so.

Deborah was downed but not beaten. With all her might, she whipped her arm around and wielded the shotgun as a bludgeon, swinging the stock of the heavy weapon into the boy's head. He stumbled off her, staggering as the world seemed to turn around on itself for a moment. _Concussion, no, not that, just had your bearings mixed up for a second, go on, get her, get that whore!_

Not a second later Deborah slammed into him, forcing him up against a heavily damaged oak. The shotgun she had wielded was now pressed sideways against his throat, gripped tightly in her iron hands. With blood seeping from where she had bashed him in the head, Mallick once again felt the life seep out of him.

"Tell me," Deborah hissed as she put her face close to his, "what are your reasons for playing the game? Why are you so set on killing your classmates?"

With desperate eyes and no oxygen in his airways, Mallick clawed to free himself from Deborah's powerful grip. Instead, the girl only cracked the weapon harder into his throat, getting his consciousness to wane. _No, can't, can't fade away or it's over, Dad, you gotta fight, beat this bitch or you'll, no, no alternatives, beat this bitch!_

With a surge of renewed rage, Mallick lashed out with a powerful fist, pounding the girl across her plainly unattractive face. The attack did not knock her off, but it succeeded in what he had hoped to accomplish, distracting her long enough for him to wrestle free. With an incredibly high kick that even he was amazed he could pull off, he sent Deborah's shotgun flying end over end. The girl gawked as the shotgun was wrenched from her hands, leaving both contestants essentially unarmed.

"To answer your question," Mallick practically spat as he discarded the empty pistol. "I'm not simply playing. I'm administering justice."

Thanking whatever deities had allowed her to come across the weapon, Regina flicked the bayonet with incredible skill as she aimed to put out an eye. Having been trained in stage theater, ballet, martial arts, and fencing, she was more than familiar with how to operate a sword with the intent to maim and kill. Her graceful frame twisted from the flaming debris as she slashed out at Rodney, getting him to cry out in pain as a line of blood drew across his extended arm.

"Pageant bitch!" Rodney seethed with clear anger as he swung his massive fists in a wide arc, missing the girl by a clear mile.

Regina cooed in delight as she appeared to regain the upper hand. Holding her bayonet in a fighting stance, she quickly approached Rodney with the intent to attack. Pointing the blade skyward, she twisted in a circular motion and lashed out gracefully, slashing out at anything near her at shoulder height. Rodney stepped back just in time to avoid the potentially fatal attack, instead receiving a shallow cut across his chest. Delight danced in Regina's eyes as she reveled in causing the boy pain.

"I am admittedly a pageant bitch," Regina said unabashed as she serenely stepped out of the flaming store. "It comes with the territory of pageantry, regretfully, and so a bitch I must be. Such is the cost of success."

With those words, she bounded forward with unnatural speed. Rodney followed her closely, but without a weapon there was very little that he could do. Hand-to-hand combat required him to be within close range of the girl, and blindly charging her was just an invitation to get himself decapitated. This girl had killed Gail, she was obviously playing the game and playing it smart. He had every reason to be careful.

Thinking on his feet, Rodney performed an attack that caught the girl by total surprise. She had been steadily closing in on him, hoping a single precise strike will end his time in the Battle Royale, but she didn't expect him to suddenly shirk back. Whirling around, she caught sight of a flash of metal as her discarded ice ax sailed end over end toward her. Reacting on instinct, she brought her bayonet up to block the projectile and yelped audibly as the heavy strike sent the bayonet flying.

"Not so dangerous are you now, you bitch?" Rodney sneered.

"You'd be surprised," Regina replied smartly as she leaned down and picked up her original weapon. Though her arm still smarted, she was able to wield the ice ax with great determination. _The game is mine to win. Nobody is going to stop me, and certainly not a brute without two brain cells to rub together._

Once again wielding her favored weapon, Regina sought out Rodney in the flame-induced haze that had overtaken all other scenery in the street. The flames from the Molotov cocktails had spread around almost exponentially, turning the better part of the main street to what was building up to be an inferno. She should get out of here soon, before the fire made it impossible to, but first she had to deal with the thug. _Only when all perceivable threats are dealt with can you revel in the comfort of victory._

"Come out and face me you big pussy," she snarled as she prowled down the street.

She was taken by surprise as Rodney charged out with an animalistic grunt, plowing into her from the side and sending her fragile frame flying. Moaning in pain as every bone and joint in her body ached, she struggled to get back on her feet. Instead, she could only watch as Rodney slammed a foot down on her shoulder and roughly rolled her over. In one hand he held the bayonet, pressing the blade close to her throat. Her eyes bugged out as he restrained her attempts to claw her way to freedom. The bitingly cold metal was unbelievable close to the flawless skin of her neck.

_This can't be it, no, not so early! You can't be taken out now, you gotta get up, face him, show him what you're made of, let him have a full taste of your fury, come on! Get up, get up and take him on, come on now!_

In an act of desperation, she seized the blade in her bare fingers, twisting the weapon out of Rodney's hands in a fluid motion. Blood spilled freely as the blade cut her fingers, but that was a small sacrifice compared to having her throat slit (as the late Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, would attest to). With the threat gone, she shot up and bound over with great haste, the ice ax raised overhead in a position capable of striking. Rodney tried to fight, but she was faster. With one quick swing, she drove the spike of the ice ax shallowly into his bicep, getting him to grunt in pain. Bracing one arm against his broad chest, she pushed herself off, ripping the ice ax out in the process. Not a deep wound, hardly one that would warrant immediate attention, but an injury she landed nevertheless.

"Next time it won't be quite as imprecise," she warned with an idle click of her tongue. They were close enough to either kiss or bite each other's noses off, but somehow the threat still conveyed.

"That's right," Rodney said as he drove a fist into her chest, punctuating each subsequent word with a further blow. "Because, there, won't be, a, next, time!"

Reeling from six or seven direct strikes to her breasts, Regina could feel nothing but immense pain shooting through every pressure spot of her body. She would have retaliated if she had been able to, but with pain quickly overtaking her world, it was all she could do to fall to her knees rather than flat on her face. She was still near Rodney, too near in fact. If she didn't put some distance between the two of them, she would be facing even more hurt. But all the same, she could not bring herself to move.

Would this be the end? It couldn't be, certainly, Regina had no end to speak of. There was no conceivable way she could be defeated… at least, not on the pageantry circuit. Out here though, it was a different matter. Was she destined to die in the Battle Royale? Did her superiority not extend to fighting for her superior life? It wasn't fair, it was supposed to be survival of the fittest, and who was better fitted to survive than her? She was the perfect specimen! The living embodiment of grace and beauty!

With tears webbing between her eyes, Regina looked up to her attacker. She did not expect to find mercy as she had come to know it was not something to be expected, but in any event she did find something surprising. Though she had expected to see Rodney loom over her, the boy she had in mind was definitely not on fire. Blinking with greater surprise, she reeled back to find that inexplicably, the flames had crept all over the boy and was rapidly smothering him. _Heavens, he's going down!_

Regina did not know why nor did she attribute it to a divine act of intervention, but in any case the explanation was painfully simple. The gasoline that had coated him while he had been swinging around that pack full of shattered Molotov cocktails had ignited under the sweltering heat, surrounding Rodney in a writhing form of flame.

Instead, she simply looked at it as her chance to strike back.

Landing a vicious kick to his ankle that got him to fall over, Regina stood over the fallen boy with great relish. The bayonet had long since been lost amidst the flaming debris, but she still had her ice ax. The trusty weapon that had served her well so far would now aid her once more. With a look of insanity in her eyes, the girl prepared to make the killing blow.

"Justice?" Deborah asked incredulously. "Is that what you think this is, justice?"

Reaching one hand up and taking hold of her shotgun's stock with incredible ease, Deborah quickly brought the long gun down on the back of Mallick's head as he held his hands up defensively. With the great brutality that preceded her reputation, Deborah pummeled him repeatedly as she snarled, "Who the fuck are you to declare justice?"

Kicking the boy's feet from underneath him and knocking him to the ground, Deborah went on, "You act like I'm some asshole for wanting to live, where's the fucking justice in that?"

Deftly rotating the shotgun and bringing it to aim at the downed Mallick, she spat out, "Well? Answer me that, you insolent little shit. Just where the fuck is this justice you claim?"

She looked to him as though waiting for a satisfactory response.

With blood streaming before his vision, Mallick looked up to the harsh girl as he faltered for a reply. There was a small part in his mind that identified with what she said, but a greater part of him was simply infuriated at how she had defied him and mocked his beliefs to boot. She had no right to even speak of justice, as a common street thug that was more often in trouble with some sort of authority than not. She was no different from Leon Delgado. The mere existence of her kind was the blight of civilization. They lied, they stole, they cheated, they did everything necessary to ruin innocent lives and some more. He would be doing the world a favor by ridding them… and the Battle Royale was the perfect opportunity to do so in one fell swoop.

Never more convinced of his principles, he found the words. "The very nature of this game is what I'm talking about. Regardless of how many innocent people you take out here, only one gets to leave alive. We're talking close to twenty, thirty people who haven't done a single good, whittled down to a solitary survivor, and the irony in that is all by their own hands."

Reaching up, Mallick grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and thrust it to the side as Deborah fired off another shot, sending buckshot into the ground in a wide radius. He hadn't been able to avoid the blast entirely, feeling fire in his face as few bits of metal scoured the side of his face. With incredible strength, Deborah tried to forcibly retract her shotgun, but Mallick had determination in spades to make up for his weaker grip. He kept the barrel pointing away from himself, steadily pulling the shotgun to his side as the girl wrestled to keep her hold on the weapon's grip.

"Hand it over you cunt!" Mallick yelled in frustration as he struggled to take the gun from the girl.

"Fuck you," Deborah replied simply as she swung the weapon widely, yet the boy still hung on desperately. "Just, fuck you. Fuck!"

Feigning a stumble, Mallick allowed the shotgun to slip slightly from his fingers before yanking it back with sudden strength, taking Deborah off guard and almost completely ripping the gun from her hands. Swiveling the long gun deftly, he swung its barrel hard into the side of Deborah's face and knocked her to the ground. As the girl let go of the shotgun, Mallick pulled it over and rotated it until he could wield it properly.

With a wide grin, Mallick said, "Gotcha."

Wiping a line of blood away from the corner of her mouth, Deborah slowly rolled over on aching shoulders, looking up at the boy who stood gleefully over her. There was a very real threat that she could be dead in less than a minute, and said threat was pointed squarely at her face.

Pushing her torso up, Deborah felt her hand press into something metal. _What do you know, girl, this just might be your chance…_

In his struggle for the gun, Mallick had accidentally dropped the one weapon he had been in possession of before finding Alyssa's corpse. He hadn't noticed it in the adrenaline rush, but he certainly noticed it as Deborah flicked the switchblade open and swung its blade in a quick arc that sliced bitingly into his stomach. Fortunately he had been wearing a pouched hoodie and had stuffed its pockets with the now mostly empty ammunition box that shielded him from the attack somewhat, but the blade still managed to carve a wide notch in his abdomen. Flesh wound, but it still probably hurt like a son of a bitch.

Getting up swiftly as she debated her next move, Deborah considered running away, quickly discarding the idea as she saw the shotgun still in Mallick's grip. She had to recover her weapon, she wouldn't last long out there with this puny knife. Even the greatest of fighters could be doomed by a superior weapon.

She found it to be unbelievably easy. Getting close, Deborah could see there were tears in his eyes. With the kind of strength she possessed, she easily pried the shotgun from Mallick's hands as he reeled in pain. Making absolutely sure it was fully loaded, Deborah swiveled the shotgun around to face him.

For a brief moment, she considered killing him. She certainly wasn't above it, and doing so would prevent many other lives from being lost to his twisted ideals.

On the other hand, she could simply lose him in the woods. With her head start and all the vegetation that thrived in the area, there was no way he could catch up to her. Though Deborah wasn't opposed to the idea of killing off the competition to ensure her own survival, there was something about having her name broadcasted as a mur-

With a whistling crack, Mallick drew a spray of blood from her shoulder as he swiftly reloaded the Luger with the few remaining bullets and pulled off an incredibly accurate shot.

"Motherfuck!" Deborah howled as she stumbled. Bringing her shotgun up, she let loose with two wild blasts as she turned to run. Both of her last retaliations found nothing but air, scattering debris all over the already riled up woodland.

Mallick thought to give pursuit, but he was essentially unarmed now. Flipping the Luger's cylinder out, he counted one, two, three, four bullets. Not nearly enough to hunt down the girl. As much as his pride smarted from the untimely encounter, there would always be other chances. Sooner or later, he would find her again. If not, somebody else would and they would take care of her. Either way, he could not afford to face the girl right now.

In the mean time, there was sure to be plenty of other people milling around. Plenty of opportunities to deliver his brand of vigilante justice. For those encounters, four bullets were sure to be more than enough.

There was still something about Deborah that bugged him. _Doesn't matter, that bitch is long gone. She's worthless anyway…_

With nary a smile, Mallick gathered the few supplies he had remaining and ran the opposite way.

Rodney was on fire, writhing as he struggled to bat out the flames surrounding his frame. Given that the gasoline all over him was an incredibly efficient fuel, it was a difficult thing to do. The circumstances certainly weren't conducive either. The deadly girl approached him swiftly with her weapon in tow. _Y'know, they tell you to stop, drop, and roll when you're on fire, but they really should teach what the hell to do when you're on fire and there's a FUCKING PSYCHO BITCH AFTER YOUR ASS!_

Skirting by him, Regina drove the ice ax into his side before withdrawing the weapon. Turning about on her heels, she ran by him again, this time managing to stab him in the shoulder. Like a comet, she shot past in a vaguely circular path, each time landing a shallow strike to some part of his flaming body. One low swipe at his ankles sent him crashing to the floor, putting out the majority of the flames on his back.

"So it looks like this battle ends here," Regina said delightfully, "as your own concoctions have become your downfall. I would lecture that when you play with fire, you're going to get burned…"

She wasn't sure if the incredibly pain Rodney was in from the partially extinguished burns distracted him from hearing what she had said, but in any event Regina was prepared to make this a kill that counted. Lifting the ice ax high overhead, she rotated it so that she could stab the burning form beneath her, declaring as she brought the weapon down with great velocity, "…but it looks like you already get the point!"

Nobody was more surprised than Regina when a flare with sparks coming off behind it streaked past her, then exploding in a brilliant blast of white light and causing her to lose sight of everything before her killing blow connected. She was blinded and unaware of what had happened, whirling around as she tried to make sense of everything on her hearing alone. _What was that, fire and light, somebody shot a firework at you? That sounds idiotic but given everything it kind of makes sense. Somebody's here though, definitely hear footsteps… come on retinas, work with me here!_

She could only see a faint outline approach through a layer of smoke, a masculine figure with something in its hands. Further resolution was impossible thanks to the temporary loss of her vision, rendering everything shades and shadows that moved around randomly. It was enough to confirm her suspicion at least, there was definitely a third person in the mix. _Not fair, all this time fighting this big son of a bitch and some third party wants to steal my kill?_

The unidentified figure cried out in a slightly nasal voice, "Get away from him, or I'll light you up like a bonfire, missy!"

Not for the first time since she had found her issued weapon in the roller coaster locker, Regina cursed the fact that she hadn't drawn a firearm in the random assignment of weapons. _Rat bastard nearly got me just now too! I'll get you for this…_

Listening to the voice that screamed at her to save her precious ass, Regina followed the light (not an easy task considering that the street was almost entirely on fire) and trailed away, clutching her ice ax as blood dripped from its tip. Watching from afar as the half-blinded girl trotted her way down the street where the fire was less intense, Jeremy Paisley, a.k.a. Boy #15, approached the downed boy fearfully.

The girl had hurt him badly, that much he could see. He had been beaten, stabbed, burnt, and basically put through everything a human being should not be reasonably put through. The boy wasn't quite unconscious, but as Jeremy frantically swatted out some of the remaining flames, he could see plainly that he was nearing a blacked out state. He was still alive though, he had that much to be thankful for. Some of his burns were pretty bad, and once dehydration started kicking in he would probably be in a really bad place, but for now he was still alive. Not for much longer though, not unless they got out of this inferno.

"C'mon, let's get you out of here," Jeremy simpered as he helped the massive boy to his feet. Though most that saw Jeremy would call him wiry and gawky, he somehow found enough strength to help him to get in an upright position. Looking to his face, Jeremy tried to identify the boy and felt his heart skip a beat. _Dark hair, big guy, kind of short, oh crap… no, wait, this isn't him, that's good, he's not hurt. Whoever this guy is, gotta get him out of here first, he needs your help right now. Everything else can wait._

As he helped Rodney get away from the nearing flames, Jeremy tried to find a way out of this mess. Recalling that there was a medical center nearby with certainly enough medication to save a life, he started lugging the heavy boy in its direction. _Oh boy, here we go._


	23. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

To my readers, I owe you all an apology. In the beginning, I started _Highway 9_ with high hopes and the intention to finish it, though for a variety of reasons it did not work out the way I would have wanted. I state this not as an excuse, but as a confession and an indication that I had learned my lesson from the attempt.

The worst offense was probably the lack of plotting in advance; for want of spontaneity I had only the briefest of structure in mind before putting the pen to the paper. More able writers would have been able to craft a captivating story all the same, but as it turned out it didn't take long before everything unraveled. I had characters with no personality or storylines, I had storylines that would have no resolution, I had killers who were little more than that, I killed off characters whenever I couldn't find anything else for them to do (which was far more frequent than I would have liked, culminating in a lot of characters dying before their projected time), and a lot of the time I genuinely had no idea how to go from point A to point B. All of this made the various storylines a lot less satisfying to read and write.

Admittedly, while a lot of the writing in the story I'm not particularly proud of, there are a few bits that surprised me with how much I enjoyed it – instances where spontaneity worked, if you will. Among others, Alyssa's death scene, Kurt's character development, and Chet and Jessica's dysfunctional relationship were bits that I rather liked given how little planning I had done beforehand. Others such as Brooke, Nicole, Elijah, and Jolene were also personal favorites in terms of what I originally had in mind, and while I believe they did not work out as well in text, I've heard from reviewers that they were characters they had taken a fancy to, which I'm genuinely grateful for.

With things as they are, it's certain that the story is never able to be finished. As much as I would have liked to give an account of the events to follow and eventual winner, the lack of forethought renders me unable to. I can share a few tidbits about the characters that I had wanted to include, but that would have been as far as closure went. To any that feel disappointed that _Highway 9_ would never see a proper end (and I hope there are at least some), I really let you down and I'm sincerely sorry for that.

Having learned from this, however, I don't think this will be the end of my time in the Battle Royale fandom. I rather enjoy the concept of it all, truth to be told I find character-driven OBRs are one of the most interesting things to read. As I compose this author's note, I am currently in the planning stage of another OBR story. This time I am fully committed to smoothing out the plot details before typing the first letter. Should I leave off the second time around, I would at least have the resolution of the story for my readers.

As many readers of the Battle Royale fandom are themselves writers of OBR stories, I would like to know what worked and what didn't in the story. This feedback would be invaluable to writing and planning my upcoming story. If you would be so kind,

1. Which character(s) did you like, and why?

2. Which character(s) did you dislike, and why?

3. What scene(s) did you like, and why?

4. What scene(s) did you dislike, and why?

5. What would you have expected or predicted to happen?

6. What did you think about the pacing of the story, i.e. the action-to-filler ratio?

7. What were other things that you took note of? In terms of plot, characters, events, writing style?

8. Who do you think would have won the Battle Royale?

9. Are there any questions about _Highway 9_ that you would like me to answer?

I would love to know what you guys thought of _Highway 9_. As I said, I pledge to do better as an author next time, and I promise that I will do my best to not let my readers down again. I appreciate every one of my readers and reviewers. Without any of you, I probably would not have gotten as far as I have.

What follows are the final chapters of _Highway 9_ that I have written. I hope that there's some sense of closure to be found from this author's note and these two chapters, even if they may not be what you hoped for. Thank you all, and I hope to see you again soon.


	24. Hour 18: 37 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 18**

**37 Contestants Remaining**

At precisely six o'clock in the evening of the first day in the Battle Royale, Julie Winnfield reported in for duty as the official announcer, as was required of all surviving winners from the second season onwards. With more than a bit of cheer in her voice as she came over the loudspeakers following a blast of mosquito noise, she addressed the thirty-seven of Malton High's senior class that still remained alive. Her enthusiasm was true, despite that two pairs of the game's best projected contestants had encountered each other with no fatalities and only one moderately serious injury, something that would soon piss off countless gamblers and viewers.

In a high-pitched, almost childlike voice, she declared, "Good evening little monsters, it's your tried and true favorite Season Seven winner, Julie Winnfield, here with the latest report of how many of your friends have died horrible deaths. With the four deaths in the past six hours, this brings us to a total of thirteen casualties so far. Over a quarter of the original fifty is already dead, at a fairly average pace I might add, so for those of you who are still too dense to understand this – there's no use fighting the power as long as you're in the game. As the song goes, if you fight the law, the law will win."

She paused to take a sip from a bottle of Brawndo sports drink, courtesy of one of the game's official sponsors.

"Right, on to the list of dead people. Listen up, in addition to the nine I've already told you about, there's Joanne Halperin, a.k.a. Girl #20, had her neck broken and was posthumously defiled by, next on the list, Boy #25, Caleb Kennedy, who in turn got careless and let one Phoebe Lascano shoot him in the head. Nice job, Phoebe, I know Sturges has got her money on you so keep making her proud. Next up, Alyssa Easton, a.k.a. Girl #24, got her collar set off by her sweetheart Drake Farrell. Congratulations Drake, unlike the late Mr. Kennedy, you're the first contestant to kill twice without getting their head blasted apart. And to round it all off, Andrew McFarland, a.k.a. Boy #7, finally got the chance to join his girlfriend in heaven after his neck was slit by Kurt Vogel."

Another sip, shuffling of her notes, before she continued, "Before I sign off, there are a few more housekeeping announcements. Firstly, in case you haven't noticed, some asshole started a huge ass conflagration in the middle of the park. I know I said you can destroy the park to your heart's contents, but come on now, this is just plain disgraceful. In any event, the pyromaniacs out there better enjoy the fire while it lasts. At 2000 hours, we will send a number of helicopters to put out the fire. Don't even think about trying anything, these choppers are better armed than all thirty-seven of you combined."

There was a note of hesitation in her voice before she continued, "Secondly, that pesky little group that's formed, I'm warning you right now to be careful. Consider this a personal message, what you're doing will get you nowhere but straight to hell, and I don't mean the town in Ohio. Sooner or later the dog will get tired of the bothersome flea and crush it beneath its paw. Hope you get the metaphor. And remember, each one of you out there – heed my words.

"Signing off, this is Julie Winnfield. Don't keep me cooped up in this bunker for too long."

As the loudspeakers squealed away to static and then silence, the contestants still remaining on the island went about their business after marking down all the names and information they could glean from the announcements. For the most part they had already gotten somewhat used to the announcements, but there were still a few that reacted with fear or surprise.

Rick Moretti, a.k.a. Boy #2, met his friend's eyes with a strange look of resignation. For a while they had been debating whether they should play the game in the form of an unstoppable tag team, but morals kept them from coming to the decision. Hearing the announcement did nothing to make his decision any easier.

Kurt Vogel, a.k.a. Boy #3, did not hear the announcements as the boy had decided to emerge from its previously dormant state, if only to keep Kurt from hearing that he had killed Andrew while he had been out of it.

Courtney Wilkes, a.k.a. Girl #9, was a girl of many sins, but envy was not one of them. She had not been able to secure a kill in the past six hours, but her time to rise would come again soon enough.

Sophie Davies, a.k.a. Girl #12, had nearly completely lost her mind, and the announcements only pushed her closer to the edge.

Karen Holmes, a.k.a. Girl #13, thought that though she was admittedly not the nicest girl, she did not deserve to be in this game. She would give anything, truly anything, to be able to relax in her room while listening to the latest Graphic Traffic broadcasts on the radio. She would even give up Tommy if there was the slightest chance she could escape from this game unscathed.

Paul Cavallo, a.k.a. Boy #14, looked away from the loudspeaker with a look of distaste as he prepared to set his plan into motion._Escape… it's never been this simple._

Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #16, could hardly believe her ears. Alyssa, Phoebe, Joanne… all of them, dead. She wondered if their messages had contributed to that, bringing them out of their safe havens and causing them to run into one of the dangerous people out there.

Alicia Kerr, a.k.a. Girl #21, was relieved that Elijah was safe, but she still missed him tremendously. She knew that it was necessary if they hoped to have a chance to escape the Battle Royale, but still… she almost wished she could simply spend her last hours with Elijah without this whole resistance thing in the way.

* * *

"I told you we should have killed that freak at the first chance we had, now he's gone and killed Andrew and god knows how many other people!" Jessica Fondacaro, a.k.a. Girl #8, said in frustration as she waved the SIG-Sauer pistol around.

"Look, he won't last long out there. He's injured, somebody else will kill him soon enough," Chet Donovan, a.k.a. Boy #22, replied, annoyed. "Will you stop going on about this? Let's just forget about that and focus on the present. We'll still win the game, so don't you worry your pretty head."

"We? I'm sorry Chet, in case you haven't heard _we_ can't win the game. _I_ can win the game, _you_ can win the game, but _we_ can't win it jointly," Jessica said coldly as she looked away.

"Look, I'm sorry babe, you know what I mean. We'll get to the end at least," Chet offered apologetically as he tried to appeal to the girl's softer nature. "We'll both get to the end and talk things out, one of us will make the sacrifice and the other will live on. But that's not gonna happen for a long time yet."

"Two days and six hours, if that," Jessica remarked, "not exactly what I would call a long time."

"So what are you saying," Chet snapped back as he began to get pissed off. "Do you want to fight this out, right here, right now? Is that it? You want one of us to kill the other in this goddamn whorehouse?"

"No, but by your tone that sure seems to be what you're getting at," Jessica said as she raised her voice. "Look, if you're gonna be unreasonable then you can just shove that sledgehammer up your ass, because you know I'm not gonna put out when you're being so-"

The blonde girl was cut off as a sharp blast of pain blossomed in her abdomen. Looking up, she half-expected to see Chet wielding his sledgehammer in the motions of a wild swing, but he only looked oblivious and a little irritated at the prospect of not having a nice piece of ass to screw in the mean time. There wasn't anybody around and she hadn't heard any sounds of gunfire, so there was nowhere she could have been shot, yet it still hurt as badly as though she had been. The pain steadily increased as she tried to steady herself.

"Chet? I don't feel so good," she said frightened as she leaned against the checkout counter of the Dusk-to-Dawn Mart they were hiding in. They had decided to take a break in the convenience store after escaping the non-existent threats that Kurt had taunted them would come soon. It was a decent location that offered an excessive supply of luxuries and shielded them from most external threats, but phantom pain was not something that could be fended off by a securely enclosed location.

"I think there's something wrong, it really, really hurts, Chet," she added.

"What's going on?" Chet asked, wide-eyed as he chucked a half-finished beer away.

"I don't know! It just, it suddenly hurts real bad," Jessica said as her facial features twisted in pain.

"Where?" Chet asked, coming to his girlfriend's side.

"Stomach, could be slightly lower. Abdomen," Jessica said as she gritted her teeth. "Oh god."

"Okay, stay calm and sit down for a while first," Chet said as his eyes shot down. "Jesus Christ!"

"What?" Jessica asked painfully, her eyes following his gaze and looking down. "Oh my god!"

Like her friends on the squad Helen, Nicole, and Holly, she had been wearing her cheerleading uniform when she was abducted and subsequently woke up in the Battle Royale. The uniform consisted of a white sweater beleaguered with the school's initials, as well as a bright red skirt. Normally, given its color scheme fresh blood stains would be hardly visible on her skirt, but it was clear to both of them that a blot of dark red was blooming from Jessica's crotch. It had already stained through her panties, dripping red onto the tiled floor.

Reaching one hand to her crotch, she touched the spot gingerly and withdrew her fingers, looking disbelievingly at the blood stained on them. Blood… with a good deal of menstrual discharge mingled in it. Thinking back to the last time she had her period, Jessica gasped as it dawned painfully on her. _Oh crap._

"What's wrong, Jess?" Chet asked in panic as he saw the blood that dripped from under her skirt. "Jesus Christ, tell me what's wrong? Is this some sort of girl thing? Are you okay?"

Feeling overwhelmed as her boyfriend pelted her with questions (and a renewed pulse of pain rippled in her womb), Jessica screamed fearfully, "What the hell does it look like, I have blood gushing from down under where blood should not rightfully leaking out of, WHY YES I FEEL FUCKING FINE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!"

"You sure that isn't just, like, period blood?" Chet said anxiously.

"Of course I'm sure," Jessica snapped nastily, then immediately moaned as more pain shot through her abdomen. "It seriously hurts like hell, Chet, I'm not kidding here!"

"Okay, okay, what do you want me to do?" Chet babbled as he looked around the convenience store for anything of use.

"You gotta get me out of here," Jessica said wildly as she grasped a handful of Chet's shirt and balled it in her fist. "I'm serious, this is worse than any menstrual cramp. I need a doctor, Chet. I need medical attention. You gotta tell them, get me out of here, I need to get to a hospital!"

"I don't think that's happening," Chet said frantically as he grabbed Jessica by the shoulders. "Look, there's a medical center some ways from here, do you think you can hold out for a while?"

"I don't know," Jessica groaned as agony wracked her body. "I suppose. You better get me there quick, Chet, I mean it."

"Okay, hop on," Chet said, crouching slightly in front of Jessica and allowing her to climb onto his back. With her legs wrapped around his waist (just not the way he wanted it), he slowly hunkered several steps forward, gaining momentum as he began to run more deftly. Sprawled flat against his back and bouncing with each step, Jessica simply moaned in pain as viscous blood the color of dark burgundy trickled down her thigh in a slow trail.

_Fuck you, Vogel. Fuck you very much._

* * *

The fire was spreading. She hadn't meant to approach it, but by simply wandering wherever her instincts led her, she had come across the frontier where the flames quite merrily consumed the lines of assorted stores on both sides of the street. In truth, there were dozens of signs that could have clued her in from a mile away, but Phoebe Lascano, a.k.a. Girl #4, was not in the mind to perceive much of anything. Sure, she could feel the warmth in the wind that blew against her face. She could smell the tang of smoke in the air. She could see the orange glow cast strange shadows all over the sides of buildings and even stain the night sky prettily, but she could not associate those observations with what she had learnt of fire's properties. Having escaped from the ruins of the small cathedral several hours ago, Phoebe had been wandering through the heavily paved streets completely unmindful of anything.

After she had witnessed Joanne's death at the hands of the giant Caleb and summarily killed him to defend her already dead friend, Phoebe had entered a trance of unawareness. Her mind simply disconnected with the real world, retreating into a crystal shell where nothing could harm her. The rest of her body still moved on autopilot, fueled by a distant sense of self preservation. She had gathered all their remaining supplies, took the gun and the rest of the ammunition, even found her phone amidst the wrecked pews, though she could not understand the runes inscribed on its screen. Then she had staggered out of the church and down the road, following the path wherever it took her.

For hours she had walked without resting, only pausing to take a methodical bite out of an MRE or a swig from her bottled water before shoving it back into her pack. Twice she had seen another person, the first of them a butch girl with a knife in her hands, the second fairly recently, a black girl looking harried as she took off in the other direction. Both times she remained hidden as well as she could. She was a girl of small stature and was more than a little inconspicuous. Dropping to the ground and curling up in a ball, she was virtually unnoticeable. Once the other person had moved on, she continued her trek.

The journey was long. It was endless. There was no final destination, and each step she took brought her a tiny way closer to nothing. She had the vaguest sense that she was walking in circles, but then again there was nothing that Phoebe could infer from that. _Keep walking, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot…_

Her legs did tire, but there was nothing she could do about them. Maintaining her gait was a necessity, she didn't know why but she knew she had to keep it up. She couldn't slow down, else she'd be shot and ticketed. She could walk if it prevented her from being ticketed. She could walk forever.

The fire loomed in front of her, almost like a solid wall, but Phoebe knew better. There was nothing that could stop her now, she was going to bring fame and glory to her hometown! Four miles an hour! Keep moving, keep moving, just keep up the speed or else she would get warned. Three warnings to buy a ticket. Getting ticketed was a very bad thing. Keep walking, just keep it up, keep it up.

She coughed lightly as plumes of ash drifted around her. The air was bad here, but not bad enough that she couldn't breathe. As long as she could breathe, she could keep powering through. Once she was through the fire… well, she didn't really know what was beyond the flames. Heaven was a nice thought, though with the massacre she had seen and been part of back at the religious institute, she no longer believed in such concepts. Hell? She was already in it. This Battle Royale, this was the embodiment of hell. Fifty contestants… some of them were demons, others innocent souls who had gotten trapped. Remember when the giant demon killed Joanne?

_Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot…_

With unseeing eyes and no sense of fear, the girl plunged straight ahead, pushing past the flames and smoke into the path ahead of her. Maybe if she walked long enough, she would see the Director and the President. She had always admired the great leaders of their nation, at least until they placed her in the game. She longed to be a member of the greats, but at the same time she knew there was nothing to do with her. She might have gotten excellent grades in school, but being a leader required more skills than that… probably Phoebe would serve as a mid-level crony under the deserving Director of her generation.

Jerking to a stop as a hand seized her shoulder and forced her to turn around, Phoebe heard a feminine voice yell, "Are you nuts? Can't you see it's on fire out there?"

As the haze cleared from her eyes, Phoebe could see who had tried to get her ticketed. Helen Quinn, a.k.a. Girl #2, looked quite shocked as she realized the identity of the girl she had saved. There had been some bad blood between the two unlikely girls, though for the life of her, Phoebe couldn't remember why. _Probably because of the game. The bitch tried to stop me from walking, that's not allowed! Where are the soldiers on the halftrack? Penalize her!_

Finding nobody to carry out her delusional expectations, Phoebe instead shrugged off the cheerleader's hand. _It doesn't matter. Nobody can stop me from winning the game. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot…_

"What the fuck? You're going to get burned to a crisp if you keep walking in there!" Helen cried as she bodily restrained the meeker girl by holding her arms behind her. Phoebe struggled in kind, thrashing wildly in Helen's grip until her pack slipped from her shoulder and fell to the ground. She noticed nothing, instead wrenching her arms free of the other girl's restraints and powering forward in her constant, maddening pace.

_Left foot, right foot, ri… no, left foot again, then right foot. Right, no, left, left foot, right foot…_

"Look, I'm not letting you do this!" Helen said angrily as she hauled Phoebe around. "You know I have every reason to hate your bitch ass, but I'm not going to let you die!"

_She's doing it again, come on now, demerits! Where are the soldiers? Privates, ticket her! It's not fair how she keeps harassing me, is it? Come on now, how do you expect me to win if she's persistently bothering me and… oh, I see where this is going. So she's the Director's daughter, huh? So that's why she gets the privilege. That's why she's uncontrolled by the penalizations. Well, if the game won't ticket her, I'll take things in my own hands._

She pulled the pistol from her belt, firing a deafening shot to the sky as Helen flinched. The recoil of the gun was immense, but Joanne had taught her how to properly handle the gun and she was able to pull it off with minimal damage. Some strain in the muscles of her arm, but hardly threatening. As long as her leg muscles worked perfectly, there would be no issue.

The warning shot seemed to have done its job. Helen slinked away as Phoebe proceeded to walk down the street, unmindful of the flames that burned in extreme merriment all around her. As she walked step after staggering step into the growing conflagration, Helen could only watch with a distant sense of helplessness. She was already as close to the fire as it would get, and as much as there was an instinct to rescue a person in trouble, self preservation reigned as a priority.

The flames closed it on her, welcoming the hair and clothes that she put on for sacrifice. As the fire licked the hair and sleeves that billowed about, they caught fire rapidly, getting the girl to realize there was a sensation of pain stinging at her skin. Nevertheless, she powered forward, relying on sheer instinct and adrenaline to carry her where automation faltered. Some of the flames, braver than the others, snaked their way up her body and ate away at her blood-stained sweater. Fortunately she had dropped her pack somewhere behind, sparing a grisly scene when the ammunition exploded in a hail of bullets. Instead, as the girl tripped, her pistol went flying deeper into the fires. In the next few moments, deafening pops echoed in close succession as the remaining bullets ignited in their casings and shot wildly out of the cylinder.

On her knees, Phoebe struggled to get up as she felt a massive cramp seize the muscles of her lower calf. _Charley horse, damn it. Not now, please, Charley, go away and come back some other day!_

Crawling forward, she dragged herself into a faceful of flames. Breathing, she inhaled smoke and carbon monoxide, feeling fire sear into her lungs as, well, fire seared into her lungs. She choked, she struggled, she spat out a mouthful of mucus and soot, but still she persevered. With her sole remaining strength, Phoebe pulled herself further and further into the fire.

Looking up, the sky was replaced by rolling clouds and darkness. Somebody loomed before her. Salvation? No, it wasn't that. Instead, it was a dark figure that beckoned to her with welcoming arms. Gratified, Phoebe fought and clawed her way over.

Speaking for the first time since she had left the church, Phoebe looked to the heavens and screamed, "Father, I don't want to die!"

More flames enveloped her as, for the first time, the girl realized she was in massive pain. Third degree burns had covered most of her body, some of the flames charring deep to the bone. Looking to the dark figure for an explanation, she found only indistinct shapes swirling in the eddies formed by convection and what remained of the soot and ashes.

The girl vomited mightily, hacking out a few bits of cooked intestines in addition to the water and MREs she had eaten.

Dragging herself one final step further, Phoebe finally collapsed as she felt nearly all of her strength sap away from her body. In actuality it was the dehydration that kicked in as her body's water content evaporated in great doses from her charred skin, getting the girl to grow increasingly delirious as she slowly burned to death.

"No, no, no," she somehow found the might to cry, "no, no, no, no, no!"

The only person nearby was Helen, and she was far from being able to rescue her now. Seeing only fire and absolutely no salvation every which way she looked, Phoebe could only the entirety of her remaining strength, she got to her knees. Lifting her hands to the skies, she screamed hoarsely, "I DID IT WRONG!"

And with that final maniacal outburst, Phoebe fell to the smoldering ground very dead.

* * *

Backing away from the flames that encased the girl's body as well as the better part of the street, Helen could only look on with a feeling akin to despair. She recognized that Phoebe was already beyond saving a long time before she ran into her, but there was still every reason to hate herself for not being able to pull the girl away from her imminent doom. Instead, she had stood by while Phoebe walked right into the flames and died convulsing. _Hellfire and brimstone… is this what we deserve?_

Pulling herself together, Helen staggered away from the growing conflagration. Left unchecked, it would only spread wildly as the fire sought out alternate fuel to burn, and Helen did not intend to follow Phoebe's footsteps. They said they would send water bombers to extinguish the fire, but until then she should probably stay as far away as was humanly possible. Fortunately there was still a huge part of the park that would remain safely unaffected for the flames, and failing that she could still hide in the woods or the coastal area. There were still plenty of places around here, and with the number of contestants dwindling constantly, that wound only mean her chances of encountering another person was slimmer than ever.

That would mean she probably wouldn't get to see Colbes again before either of them died, but Helen thought she might be okay with that now. Sure, she had initially sought him for comfort, but after a while she started to see how pointless it was. There was no guarantee that Colby wasn't playing the game or, as much as she loathed to consider the possibility, that he wouldn't want to spend his last moments with her. And Helen hated the idea of rejection as much as she didn't want to die. _Gotta do this alone then, right, girl? At least you've got the bowgun to keep yourself safe._

_Or... who knows, that two percent chance might just work out for you. It's been a breeze so far…_

With conflicting thoughts in her mind, Helen made her way towards another part of the amusement park in search of shelter. As long as she took things opportunistically, she could make it far. That was the comfort she chose to hang on to.

* * *

Rick Moretti was normally not a very intuitive person particularly when it came to reading his peers, but there were exceptions. Said exception was named Colby Trent, a.k.a. Boy #13, who was so transparent he might as well be laying it all out. If there was a word tailored to describe Colby, it would probably be stupid or some other synonym thereof. There was hardly a question about it, he was simply not at all gifted in the intelligence department. He had only managed to make it through the past four years of high school on a combination of athletic merits, cheating, and barely passing grades. As it was, Rick found that more often than not, Colby simply acted impulsively and on any urge that occurred to his simple mind. Consequences meant nothing

And that was something that especially bothered him in the Battle Royale. Though Colby did get that they were risking their very existence as contestants in the game, he simply did not understand what danger they were constantly in. More than once, he had to lecture him on why it would be a very bad idea to get drunk, go on the space cowboy ride, or check out the giant bonfire burning in the middle of the park.

"Look, all I'm saying is," Colby said quite fitfully as he laid into the beginning of his umpteenth moronic plan to get themselves killed, "I don't see why we can't call the chicks over, get 'em all riled up and horny and lay back. Let 'emservice us, I mean all the girls in this game, it's like a pussy buffet. Pageant girl, porn princess of the west, that rich blonde girl, the saucy vice chair of the council, not to mention all the cheerleaders, hell, it's like a gallery of high school fetishes, innit?"

Rick was exasperated, but knew enough to respond before his friend did anything stupid. "Dude, no."

"Why not?" Colby said as he frowned indignantly. "The way I see it, most if not all of these girls are going to die, innit? So why let it go to waste? I mean we're the two biggest studs this side of the island, so let's just call all of 'em over, pop a few cherries and loosen some cunts, get laid a bunch of times, then we get those girls lined up and the guns between us, just let them have it!"

"Passing over the sheer inanity of that plan," Rick said, knowing fully that Colby wouldn't be able to follow the words, "do you seriously think any of the girls will fall for it? Yeah, they'll sure like getting screwed in the bum half a dozen times before having their asses tossed out."

"Well, we're not gonna let them know 'bout the last bit, obviously," Colby replied with a scowl.

"Because your reputation of a womanizer is just what all chicks want in a sexual partner," Rick deadpanned.

"Exactly," Colby replied brightly. "See, I knew you'd get into the spirit. Look, let's call up the cheerleader girls at least. They're literally glued together all of the time, so calling either one means the whole four, five of them shows up, that's still a lot of ass for the two of us!"

"Yeah, because calling your ex-girlfriend over is what you really want to be doing," Rick responded, getting Colby to frown in slow realization.

"The rest of them then," Colby said finally.

"Nah, won't work, Nicole's a prude and Holly, well, good luck getting her to even let you feel over the bra," Rick said half-jokingly as he mentally counted the girls, "Jessica could work theoretically, but she got all committed to Chet and not unless you're open to the idea of a threesome with another guy."

Colby looked uncomfortable. "Oh. Yeah, that won't work."

Turning the attention back to their situation at hand, Rick said, "Look, let's just get back to what we were talking about. Playing the game, yay or nay?"

"Space cowboy?" Colby asked hopefully.

"No, not that. Battle Royale," Rick said, frustrated. "Do we head out there guns blazing and take out everybody else we see, or we stay here in this shitty shack and wait for someone to fuck us up the ass with a rusty chainsaw? Time's wasting, we better make a decision soon."

"I dunno… I mean, I don't wanna die," Colby muttered, more than a bit taken back by how brashly Rick approached the topic.

'So you're saying we should play?" Rick asked without missing a beat.

"I'm not sure," Colby replied quite honestly (_as if he's capable of formulating a convincing lie_), "it's kinda weird for me 'cause Helen and Pheebs are both still alive, y'know? I mean, it's not like with you, 'cause Bonnie's already dead and all so it's kinda a moo point, innit?"

Looking to Rick as a decidedly darker air surrounded him, the boy knew instantaneously he had spoken wrongly. Bonnie Nichols, a.k.a. Girl #6, had always been a sore spot to the Italian jock despite everything. Colby didn't exactly know the details, was only privy to the knowledge that Rick had the mother of all crushes on the girl. To be honest Colby didn't understand what the appeal was, considering that Bonnie was one of the least developed girls in the island (second perhaps only to her friend Alicia), but Rick was simply head over heels in love. At least, that was the situation as he knew it.

More than a little uncomfortable and looking to defuse the tension, Colby shot out loudly, "So okay, let's just do this, let's play the game. A two man firing squad, man, just get the dudes and chicks lined up and let 'em have it."

With a bitter twitch of his lips, Rick slowly responded, "Yeah. Let's do this."

Pulling out his revolver, he added dangerously, "Not like we have anything to lose."

* * *

There was a saying that opposite elements tended to attract each other, and no two contestants of the game were better suited to demonstrate this theory than Justin Everett, a.k.a. Boy #23, and Shaina Mueller, a.k.a. Girl #17. An unlikely pair of friends, most in the school believed them to be dating or at the very least screwing on the side despite their vast differences. Though that was plainly untrue, neither of them did anything to counter the rumors. In fact, given their mutual closeness, they were practically facilitating the rumor mill with every exchange of words. As they were both introverts and tended to keep to themselves, neither would normally be included in the student body's scope of awareness. However, with Justin being a part of the student union and Shaina a member of the girls' wrestling squad, they found themselves recognized and gossiped about by more people than they cared to know.

Justin was well-mannered, polite, intelligent, handsome, kind, and sensitive, but above all else the single trait that characterized him was effeminate. There was something about him that seemed to get the girls friendly and make the guys feel more than a slight bit uncomfortable. Everything he did, every single action was performed so smoothly and suavely that it had to be deliberate. He spoke normally to the guys (as normal as Justin could be, at least), but somehow always managed to give off a feeling of coming on to them. In all other aspects he was a fairly swell guy, but a case of his reputation preceding him kept him from being popular.

On the other hand, Shaina could be described as virtually his polar opposite. As black as he was white, as abrasive as he was courteous, and as thickset as he was wiry, Shaina was the girl that virtually nobody wanted to befriend, with Justin being the only exception. Somehow, Justin had taken a liking to the girl, and since then the two had maintained a somewhat tenuous relationship. Her poor esteem among peers was not without reason, however, as she tended to be a fairly unpleasant person, always quick with a rude and often bigoted remark.

As it were, it seemed only natural to all those who even peripherally knew the pair that they would find each other in the Battle Royale. Some would guess they would form an approximation of a Bonnie and Clyde duo, but in any event Justin and Shaina had only chosen to sit by quite nonchalantly as death and destruction rained all around them.

"Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, holy shit, that's thirteen people dead," Shaina said incredulously as she walked over to the bulletin board behind the front desk at the island's only medical center. She had found a deck of cards and a shitload of tacks in the reception, and had pinned up fifty of the cards that she claimed represented the Battle Royale's contestants in an incredibly bizarre shrine to the fallen. With each announcements, she had taken down the corresponding number of playing cards, though Justin didn't know where the removed cards went.

"That's quite a lot of people," Justin replied, worried. "I had hope at first that this won't go too badly, but I'm thinking they might be very much misplaced."

"Thirteen, damn, that's an unlucky number," Shaina muttered as she began to pace.

"Let's not get superstitious," Justin said as he bit his lower lip. "That's not really something we can afford to do in times like these."

"I'll do whatever the hell I want to, white boy," Shaina replied not unkindly, but in any event she did shut up about the whole deal with thirteen previous deaths (though both were unaware that the number had already risen to fourteen). Instead, she pocketed the four playing cards that she had pulled off the bulletin board, leaving thirty-seven intact ones on it.

Rubbing her temples, she added angrily, "Damn, don't take this the wrong way but if things were any different, I'd put good money on me being out of this shitwreck already. I mean, just me and Gloria and Demelza, maybe Hazel even if I can't stand that whore, us girls get together and just, kill, kill, kill, plow our way through this shit and we'd take down everybody else, ream out the assholes in charge for good measure. Not that I would do that out here."

Looking to his friend, Justin could only nod, amused. "Yeah, I'm sure. If you say so."

"No, I really mean it. We're are good at this thing y'know, we watch the show, we know what to expect. Hell, give us a stick between the four of us and we'll beat the shit out of everybody we find. Plus, we're sportsmen and we have the whole teamwork thing going on, there's no way we're gonna lose to anybody," Shaina insisted.

"That's an unfortunate implication, as I seem to recall a good number of jocks being casted in this game," Justin said grimfaced.

"Then we're good as fucked," Shaina said simply. "At least, we're fucked if they're all chums and get together, but with the kind of dynamic in the game's casting I doubt that has much of a chance of happening. Let me see, there's Colby and Rick, Chet, Kurt, Nicholas, probably five or six more others? Point is, they're not like a team. They'll only end up killing each other, mark my words."

Nodding as she looked at the grid of cards that remained on the bulletin board, she nodded and added, "We'll survive if we stay put."

The door burst inward as two people charged into the room. With the sunlight coming from behind them, neither could see the pair very clearly, but in general unexpected encounters tended to be quite bad in a Battle Royale. With instinct honed by years of pounding on people and having people try to pound her, Shaina raised the kitchen knife that had been issued with her pack. Reacting in kind, Justin simply shielded the light from his eyes. His assigned weapon, if you could call a pair of ice skates a weapon, was an abysmal joke at best and a sincere attempt to fuck him up the ass at worst. He had watched enough ice hockey matches that ended in disaster to know that these skates could be quite deadly if used right, but… come on, they were skates. It wasn't like he would have an actual fighting chance with these.

"Who's there?" Shaina shot out as she held the knife in front of her.

"Shit," a masculine voice answered. Rather, it seemed to be talking to its companion, currently sprawled over the first person's back. Both were quite tall, but figure number one was considerably more stocky than figure number two. _Probably a guy and a girl. Could be a threat… attack, fall back, or hold your ground? No, better to see what they want first, but damn if they had guns we'd be fucked, we'd be totally fucked like a pedophile who bent over in the prison showers. Not good, not good, but no shot so far so why not press your luck a bit further?_

"Don't shoot," a female voice said weakly.

"We just need medicine," Chet said as he entered the hallway, revealing that he had been carrying his girlfriend Jessica on his back. The pair were reasonably well armed, with Chet having a sledgehammer strapped to his back while Jessica had a handgun stuffed in her skirt, though neither looked to be in any condition to use their weapons. Chet was clearly tired from the exertion of carrying another person (even if said person happened to weigh less than a hundred pounds thanks to a strict diet and exercise schedule as well as a chronic bout of anorexia), whereas Jessica simply looked like she was in immense pain. There were no visible wounds on her body, though she did look a bit battered and dark red blood roped down one of her thighs. It didn't matter, Shaina still knew what she had to do.

With the knife wielded high, Shaina said loudly, "Get your hillbilly asses out of here if you know what's good for you. We ain't got no medicine to share, so fuck off."

Justin recoiled visibly. "Sh-Shaina!

"Shut the fuck up, kid," Shaina said warningly as she held Justin back. "I know how to handle this. These people have to leave now."

"Please, my girlfriend's in pain and she's going to die unless she gets medical attention," Chet pleaded as he looked to the squat girl for mercy.

Shaina met his eyes with an unwavering glare. "Then I'm afraid you're shit outta luck. Some asshole cleaned this place out even before we got here. You're not gonna find anything stronger than a Tylenol here."

"What're you doing, Shaina?" asked Justin incredulously as he looked to the girl. "These people need our help!"

"Shut up, Justin!" she snapped back angrily. "You sit your ass back there and let me deal with this!"

"Please, Jessica needs to get looked at. She needs to get checked or something. There's gotta be something left behind, anything will help," Chet said pleadingly.

"We've got penicillin," Justin shot out before Shaina could stop him, "and some bandages and gauze pads, and there's still more than enough antiseptic and saline solution in the back rooms. We're not doctors, but we may be able to help, or at least make her more comfortable."

"What the hell are you doing?" Shaina said with indignant rage, looking like she had swallowed a particularly foul-tasting canary.

"They need help!" Justin said emphatically as he gestured at Chet and Jessica.

"Hell no, white boy, that's my word and my word is final," she responded testily.

"If you refuse to help them and turn them away, then their blood is on your hands if they die," Justin said pointedly. "You'd be just as bad as anybody out there. Deliberate inaction is as justly accountable as direct action."

"Then I'll sure as hell be accountable," she snapped in reply, "'cause there ain't no way in hell I'm gonna let these honkies in here. Not unless…"

She appeared to be deep in thought for all of two seconds as Chet snapped his head up.

"Alright," she finally conceded, "you guys can stay here for as long as it takes for your asses to get back on track. On one condition…"

"Whatever it is, we'll do it," Chet said as he began to set Jessica down from his back.

"…you hand over that bimbo's gun right now, and we get to keep it when you leave. You can keep the hammer, but leave the gun with us," Shaina demanded.

"What? No fucking way," Chet said defensively.

"Do it," Jessica hissed demonically as she clawed at Chet's face from next to him. "Whatever the fuck she's asking for, just do it. I don't care."

"But Jess-" Chet started to say, rudely cut off as Jessica hauled off and slapped him as hard as she could. Caught off guard, Chet's head whipped to the side as his face stung heatedly. In shock but realizing what his girlfriend had done, Chet glared at her with a mixture of rage and indignation. His hand went behind his back to grab the handle of the sledgehammer, but somehow he managed to restrain himself. _Not the time yet…_

Oblivious to her boyfriend's dark thoughts, Jessica continued to seethe with teeth gritting, "Unless you've got blood coming out of _your_ vagina, shut the fuck up. Give her the gun if she wants it, I don't care! I want out of this, I'm not staying out there in the fucking open any longer with this fucking HOLE IN MY UTERUS!"

Reaching to the waistline of her skirt, she tugged out the pistol and tossed it to the floor, saying, "Here, take the fucking thing, now can I get some goddamn painkillers?"

Her feet suddenly collapsed beneath her, sending the blond girl sprawling as Justin and Chet both hastened to catch her. While the two guys struggled to haul Jessica back to her trembling feet, Shaina took the gun off the floor and held it in her hands. Her grip trembled slightly, but she steadied it the best she could. With the gun, she pushed the door close behind the couple as they staggered into the waiting lounge with Justin's help, leaving a trail of red droplets where the blood had dripped off Jessica's leg. The cheerleader looked as though she was in such intense pain that she could not even stand on two feet, instead hanging limply between Chet and Justin as they each supported one of her shoulders.

"Hey, Shain, you coming?" Justin turned back to ask.

Shaina frowned. She had a really bad feeling about inviting two virtual strangers into their temporary haven. She was in possession of their most effective weapon now, and Jessica didn't look like she was in the condition to twirl a baton, much less do anything to harm them. But there was still something incredibly suspicious about them. Neither of them were really kind-hearted people, only considered good and proper in the social hierarchy and quite malevolent by some accounts. Then again, Shaina herself had garnered a fairly negative reputation thanks to the abuse she dished out constantly, and in a Battle Royale you never knew what to expect. Besides, they did look to be genuinely in need of assistance.

"Yeah, keep your britches in check, white boy," she snapped back as she jammed the pistol in her pocket. "I'm coming."

She would just have to watch them closely. Very, very closely.


	25. Hour 19: 36 Contestants Remaining

**Hour 19**

**36 Contestants Remaining**

The seven contestants remaining in the woodland cabin were all awaiting their friends' return with nervous anticipation. The announcement that had come roughly an hour ago had let them know that they were still alive, but that was all the comfort they were going to get. They all knew well enough that to conserve their already dwindling text messages, the four wouldn't be contacting them until nine – or unless something devastating had happened. As such, they all dreaded the cell phone's shrill beep as much as they wanted to hear from their friends. For the duration at least, it remained silent with a dull display of 'NO NEW MESSAGES.'

Instead, the four – minus Marla Thompson, a.k.a. Girl #18, and Holly Richmond, a.k.a. Girl #15, who were on guard duty, as well as Alexis Brightwell, a.k.a. Girl #5, who was still attempting to dissemble the collars they had retrieved from the three corpses – simply sat around the coffee table in the living room as they enjoyed a thoroughly drab meal of MREs and bottled water.

"Poker?" Alicia Kerr, a.k.a. Girl #21, said hopefully as she held up a deck of cards. She was met with mostly a chorus of "nah, don't wanna play" and "maybe later."

"Oh, come on, you guys," she said annoyed as she tossed the pack on the couch. "I mean, don't get me wrong, sulking in silence is a great national pastime but let's not get too exerted, shall we?"

"I'm just… not in the mood," Nicholas Dillon, a.k.a. Boy #5, said as he chewed on a piece of MRE that looked and tasted like condensed cardboard. Cheap government bastards, all the money at their disposal and the best food they could provide was this crap? Pitiful, utterly pitiful.

"Me neither, but it's still better than letting your pessimistic thoughts turn this whole place into a sob fest," Alicia said sassily as she balled up the remains of an MRE packet and hurled it in the direction of a trash can. It bounced off the rim and rolled away. With an exasperated sigh, Alicia went over and retrieved it, hurling the balled up plastic spitefully into the trash.

"I'm so tired of waiting," Frank Greer, a.k.a. Boy #16, complained as he sat up. "I mean, you're saying we're all in this together, but so far all we've done is sit around and talk. I know those guys are out there and Alexis is working on the collars, but surely there's gotta be something we can do around here?"

"Yeah, I'm real sick of this waiting as well," Nick added in agreement.

"Guys, you know that until we've got something to start with, there's nothing we can do," Jolene Spies, a.k.a. Girl #16, said in reply as she began to feel the brunt of the group's burden fall on her shoulders. As de facto leader of the seven remaining here, she had been on the receiving end of whatever unpleasant happening that was latest to plague one of their minds. She knew that since she had called together these people in the first place, she was more than likely responsible of managing them and keeping them content, but even she didn't know everything. She didn't know what would happen next, she didn't know if the four out there were safe, she didn't know if this goddamn rebellion has the slightest chance in hell of working (_you know that one actually, but not something you can tell everybody, is it?_). All she could do was keep them from evolving past the current state of unrest.

"Great, I knew it," Nick said sullenly. "What's the point of calling us here in the first place, if all you want us to do is sit around? Cannon fodder?"

"Well, we need people to stand guard and there's strength in numbers, and-" Jolene started to protest, cut off as Alicia came back to her seat.

"And there's the insurance that gathering a large crowd provides, right?" Alicia said matter-of-factly.

"What?" Nick said.

"You know, if there's a chance of succeeding then you can bet the government or whatever agency is behind the game will shut us down in a second," Alicia went on as if it was the most natural conclusion in the world. "Think about it, if it's just her and Micah then if they do find a loophole, there's every chance that they'll just blow up collars number B6 and G16 to stop them from escaping. If she gets enough people together, they'll think twice before killing one quarter of the contestant pool at once. At least, they'll let us go a bit further than otherwise, isn't that right?"

Jolene had no response, staring at the girl with her mouth agape. It wasn't untrue… that was the thing. But letting that on would have betrayed her confidence (_not that there's much of that remaining, thanks a lot_) and Jolene simply couldn't let that happen. Not before they accomplished what they hoped to do…

"That's not true," she finally lied, her mouth dry from not just the dehydrated MREs.

"It is," Alicia said simply as a look of realization dawned on Nick's face.

"Dude, that's cold. We're just bodies to you?" he asked incredulously.

"No, of course not!" Jolene said vehemently even as she failed to find the words to object. She looked to Nick, Alicia, and Frank with pleading eyes, though for the most part they either averted her gaze or simply stared back at her defiantly.

"Come on, let's not fool ourselves," Alicia said as she munched on another chunk of MRE. "You needed enough people around to keep yourself safe, isn't that right? Why else would you let people who tagged along, like me and Nicole and Holly stick around? You didn't even trust us enough to text us in the first place. Hell, I bet you barely even know half the people here, people who are out of your comfort zone-"

"That's enough," Frank said commandingly as he stared at the black girl in a way that put holes through her. For the most part he had simply sat by in silence, but now that he was in this, he wasn't about to let the group fall apart mere hours after it had formed. He might have been one of Jolene's closest friends, though he still didn't know much of their plan beyond what they had let on. Nevertheless, if this was seriously accomplishable, they had to smooth out all the bad feelings.

"It doesn't matter why she asked us here in the first place, the important thing is we're here, we're in this together, and we're going to do this," he went on. "If you don't trust any one of us, then you're welcome to exit stage left. We can't afford to have anybody who doesn't trust us in here, as much as we can't have people we can't trust. If you want to remain part of us then we need to know you're with us, not just nominally but one hundred percent."

Halfway raising the MRE to her mouth before she froze, Alicia slowly lowered it as she considered what the boy had said. Truth was, she never really bought into the whole escape plan if only because of how… ideal it sounded. Things were bound to go wrong, and odds were that not a single one of them would make it out of here. The only reason she had decided to stick around was because of Elijah really. Still, she'd hate to be forced to head out there – who knew if they'd even let her keep a weapon? – without seeing Elijah again. And at the heart of it, Alicia was not a traitor. If she said she was with them, she would stay with them to the best of her ability (or at least until the shit hit the fan).

"I'm sorry," she mumbled with the grace to look the slightest bit guilty.

"It's okay, I'm sorry too," Jolene said heavily. "Truth is, I gotta admit that there's a part of my reasoning that says that. I do want people around because it makes this easier to accomplish. But as Frank said, we're all in this together now, and I sincerely want to save as many people as possible."

"FUCKING FUCK!"

The outburst came piercingly from inside the bedroom. Jolene, Frank, Alicia, and Nick all turned at once to the doorway, more frightful than any of them would care to admit. Alexis was working on the collars inside, but they knew fully that these weren't just any electronic contraption they were dealing with. One wrong move while handling the metal circlet could blast all her fingers clean off. There wasn't any sound of explosion or electronic beeps that they could hear, but…

Alexis emerged from the doorway with a look that clearly suggested she was totally pissed off. In one hand she held a half dissembled metal collar, in the other an ice pick with a slightly blunted tip.

"I can't do this, okay?" she shot out as the others looked questioningly to her.

"What's wrong?" Nick asked alarmingly as Holly and Marla looked in to see what the commotion was.

"I've tried my best, but this ain't happening, I'm sorry," Alexis said quickly as she gestured with the tools in her hands. "This is too difficult, no, it's downright impossible. Cars I can work with, motorcycles and wagons I can fix, but this, this is no engine. This thing's a goddamn bomb, and there's no way I can break it open and defuse it. I've done the best I can. I removed one of the panels on the side without tripping the detonator, but I'm sorry that this is as far as it's gonna get. Maybe your friend can crack this like a game console, but I'm not gonna be able to do it, I'm sorry."

With a slight remorseful look, she added, "I'm sorry I can't figure it out, but there's nothing further I can work on."

Silence reigned the room until Frank broke it. Speaking in the calming tone he often adopted when dealing with a friend's existential crisis or talking somebody out of a suicide attempt, he said, "You've cracked open one side of it, that's better than any of us can do. Hell, that's better than anybody in the previous seasons could do, and probably more than the game officials figured we could make do with a handful of primitive tools. I'm still here because I have trust in you and Micah, if you put your heads together I'm sure you can crack that collar."

"Yeah, it's no big deal if you feel the pressure," Alicia shot in. "I mean, it's fucking Battle Royale, the pressure's going to get us all some way or another."

"Keep working on it, okay? We have confidence in you," Frank said simply.

"I'm going to fuck this up if I try any further, I just know this," Alexis said maddeningly.

"No, you're not," Jolene said confidently. "I know we didn't intend to ask for your help at first, but you're here now and you're here for a reason. Some old guy with a white beard up there in the sky wants us to blow this thing wide apart, and it knows that we're going to need your help. So pull yourself together, take a breather and maybe a dinner break, then get your ass back in there and get us out of this game."

Wiping the back of her palm against her eyes (_no tears though, no tears_), Alexis said quietly, "I can try."

"You do that," Frank said with a bit of pride in his voice. "You do that and get us out of here."

* * *

The examination room of the medical center was a fairly spacious room lined with various machinery, supply closets, and counters that reached up to their chests. In the middle of the room was an examination chair that could be tilted back to allow its user to recline, the kind you'd see at a dentist's. At the moment, Jessica Fondacaro, a.k.a. Girl #8, was lounged in the examination chair in considerable discomfort as Shaina Mueller, a.k.a. Girl #17, as the only other girl in the building, begrudgingly examined her with the aid of a heavy and very dusty medical handbook.

"So what sort of trauma's happened to you?" Shaina asked in a none too pleasant tone.

"What?" Jessica replied confusedly.

"It doesn't look like it's appendicitis or menstrual cramps, and you guys said you had a few run ins earlier, so I'm assuming you must have gotten hurt or something," Shaina replied as she flipped idly through the text. "Of course there's every possibility that this is simply some medical condition we can't explain, in which case there's nothing we can do. But for the sake of it, give us something to work with here."

"Well," Jessica said hesitantly as she briefly considered their previous encounter, "we came across Kurt."

"Vogel?"

"How many other Kurts do you know are on this island? Anyway, we got into a scuffle, he kicked me in the gut a couple of times, it hurt like hell but I didn't figure anything was wrong besides, y'know, the whole thing about it hurting like a son of a gun. You don't think he ruptured something, do you?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Shaina said, shaking her head. "Let's face it, none of us are qualified surgeons here."

"Fuck, that's just… fucking great," Jessica moaned as she lolled her head back.

As a tear slid down her cheek, she said with some despair, "So I'm gonna die then, I guess."

"Considering the circumstances, I'd say there's a pretty huge chance of that," Shaina said brusquely in reply. "'bout ninety-eight percent odds if my math is right."

Before either of the girls could make another sound, they could clearly hear the front door slam open with great urgency. This was followed by sounds of people making their way into the building. Footsteps and shouts echoed from the lobby as Shaina could clearly hear Justin Everett, a.k.a. Boy #23, shout unintelligibly.

"Oh shit, sounds like trouble. Stay here," Shaina said a bit fearfully as she pulled out the pistol.

Leaving the despondent Jessica alone, she ran out the hallway and headed towards the lobby. There were people out there. She didn't know what they wanted, but it could hardly be any good. Either they were people like Jessica, who were hurt and came to the medical center in search of medical aid, or… She hoped it wasn't the alternative. There were all sorts of fucked up people out there. Many of them were dicks and bitches who wouldn't hesitate before blowing a round through somebody's head. And then there was Elijah's posse… Justin might have been a part of the student council, but Shaina knew well enough to steer clear of Elijah's people.

Shaina came through the double doors with the SIG-Sauer leading the way, instinctively leveling the gun at the two figures standing in front of the open doors.

"Jesus Christ, don't shoot me!" Chet Donovan, a.k.a. Boy #22, said as he held his sledgehammer in a defensive stance.

The other guy was somebody she didn't really recognize. Sure, she might have seen him now and then around the school, and probably a few times outside of, but she couldn't place him. Scrawny build, pale skin, black knit cap and headphones. The guy looked incredibly jittery as he leaned against the wall, brandishing a plastic toy gun. His pack was dumped at his feet, bulging to its limit with all sorts of… metal implements? It looked plenty odd, but Shaina had more important things on her mind.

"Who's this cracker?" she said insultingly as she pointed to him with the pistol.

"Hey, watch it," he said nervously as he aimed the toy pistol at her. "The name's Jeremy. You're Shaina Mueller, right? I've seen you around."

"The one and only," she said emphatically. "Whatcha doin' here? Who the fuck let you in?"

"I'm not dealing with this one," Chet muttered under his breath as he walked in the direction of the examination room.

"Hey, it's okay, Justin let me in," said Jeremy Paisley, a.k.a. Boy #15, as he gestured wildly. "You see, I was with someone who's really badly hurt and we needed help…"

"What? The hell do you think we look like, fucking CEDA?" Shaina practically shrieked. "We're not some kind of charity service that'll take just anybody in need, fuck, you want one of those people, you go look for the Doctors Without fucking Borders!"

Raising her gun threateningly, she practically towered over the boy despite her somewhat stunted height, and talked spitefully in his face, "I don't give a shit if it's your grandma and she's got some motherfucking strain of flesh-eating bacteria, or if she's got syphilis or rabies or what the fuck ever. I don't care if it's your little sister with an arm and both legs hacked off. You people need to leave, _now_."

Ever the pacifist, Jeremy still tried to talk calmingly to the girl. "Look, it's all fine you see, we don't mean no harm."

"If I can still see your pasty asses here in five seconds, _I do_," Shaina snarled as she pointed the gun at her feet and fired a warning shot. The bullet sailed harmlessly (though loudly) into the wooden floor, ripping up the polished oak and making her point perfectly clear. Jeremy turned ashen as he backed away from the enraged girl.

"Jesus Christ, what are you, fucking nuts?" he squealed.

Hearing the loud sound echo from within its halls, Chet emerged from the hallway doors, looking as though he was priming himself up for some unexpected occurrence. Never one to go down without a fight, Chet wielded his sledgehammer overhead and prepared to bring it down with all the might he had, but the caution was unnecessary; Shaina had already sheathed the pistol snugly within its holster. Instead, she turned to the jock and the cheerleader.

"You," she said disgustedly, "and your girlfriend, the two of you are going to be the death of me. I just know this."

With an impudent whip of her black tresses, Shaina stormed past the thoroughly bewildered Chet and stomped off into the director's office.

"What's up with Little Miss Oprah?" Chet mused.

"Dunno, she looks like she swallowed a bug with her cornflakes… or something," Jeremy muttered. "You figure I can lay low around here for a bit?"

"I don't know," Chet replied, "it's not my decision to make..."

Turning the attention to the bagful of antique weaponry at Jeremy's feet, he piped up, "…but I don't think that's gonna be a problem. We'll put a word in, for all that's gonna help. Just one tiny, insignificant detail though…"

* * *

"This is not good," Micah Webster, a.k.a. Boy #6, moaned in palpable despair as he regarded the mess of metal and circuitry that surrounded him. Once an Internet café that offered salvation for legions of Internet addicts in their quest to be the champion digital slayer of the week – as well as lesser folks who preferred to get their groove on in the dark confines of the café, online or otherwise – it was totally trashed, for lack of a better word. Somebody had methodically and painstakingly gone through the entire place, wrecking every single bit of technology more advanced than an espresso machine, to the point that not one piece of hardware was salvageable.

"I mean, this is bad, this is really bad," he babbled on as he walked around the carpet of shattered hard drives, data crunching beneath his shoes.

"We're aware of that," Hank Norton, a.k.a. Boy #17, said annoyed as he sifted through the wreckage, finding nothing that looked remotely repairable (though admittedly to his layman eyes). "You sure there's nothing of use in here? Maybe a hard drive or a keyboard, anything that escaped intact that we can scavenge?"

"I'm normally good at fixing stuff, but this is simply impossible. It's like trying to, I don't know, failing to find a glass vase in a desert and trying to make one regardless," Micah said angrily.

"That's bad," the doe-eyed Nicole Reiniger, a.k.a. Girl #14, said as she held up a frayed length of fiber cable, "but I do know there's one solution."

"What?" Hank asked.

"Duct tape, get enough of that stuff and I swear it fixes anything," Nicole replied smartly. "You can build anything as long as you've got duct tape. When I was five, my dad made me a tree house out of nothing but duct tape and a broken mop."

"Not the case here, I'm afraid," Micah replied frustrated as he tossed something that looked like the internal organs of a cyborg back into the wreckage.

"You think the government did this?" Hank asked nonchalantly as he tipped over a trash can, predictably finding nothing but trash. Food wrappers, aluminum cans, socks, condoms, and a broth of concentrated soda that had seeped out of all the discarded cans.

"Nah, can't be," Nicole muttered. "I don't think they would do something like this, at least. They renovated the whole place in preparation for the game, right? There'd be no sense of putting up a computer lab like this place if they're just going to tear it down. It makes sense if they install, like, a trillion keyboard loggers and filters and keep the computers off the networks, but… this makes no sense. They built it up and tore it down. No, it doesn't ring true to me. And remember the other places we checked? Nothing destroyed, they just hauled away the computers."

"Somebody else, maybe? Some bastard thought it would be funny to take it all out on the computers, make it hell for anybody who wanted to check their email," Hank grunted. "God damn, if I ever find the son of a bitch who did this, I'd like to show him a little…"

"Hank, cool it," Micah said as he began to get increasingly pissed. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We need to go, keep moving before it's too late. Where's the next spot on Jolene's map?"

"Far," Nicole replied simply as she pulled out the map and identified the nearest location.

"Great, that's real helpful," Hank said sarcastically.

"Actually, there's supposedly a security center near the main streets… but I suppose with the fire raging down there, any computer there's gotta be crispier than anything we'll find in here," Nicole said.

"Let's not head there," Micah said. "I don't know about you guys but I like my skin uncooked.

"Me either," Nicole said daintily.

"That makes three of us, but I have a feeling the jackass who did this is going to find his ass torched drier than the cafeteria's meatloaf if I get my hands on him," Hank grunted as he stared at a video camera capturing their motions from the corner of the room. "Nice of them to leave the cameras intact though. The show must go on, huh? God forbid a little vandalism interrupt the broadcast of non-stop slaughter."

"Let's smash it," Nicole suggested. "Show 'em what we think of this shit."

"Let's not, I like my neck the way it is," Hank said as he moved to shield the camera's vision. "But I will also state that for the record, neither myself nor my neck likes the camera very much. It's unflattering."

Nicole laughed, more out of politeness than anything else. The insincerity showed in her voice, but Hank didn't mind for once. It was nice to hear another person laugh, even if they were a fake plastic bitch who probably had a higher content of hair dye than brain cells in her skull. _You're both on the same side now though, the past's behind you. Come on now, Hankie, not now, not here, please._

"So there's really nothing of use here?" Nicole asked as she brushed a lock of red hair from her face.

"Nope," Micah replied hollowly.

"Then there's no point in dwelling here. Let's go, Elijah's probably getting real anxious," Nicole said as she picked up her sickle.

"I guess," Hank said with a sigh. "Fuck, I'm so not looking forward to telling Mister E about this. I think at around the third, maybe fourth place we stopped at, he started losing it. I bet if you tell him all we found down here is jack shit, he's gonna do that weird bug-eyed stare."

Nicole laughed again, this time with a bit of genuine humor.

The three walked up the stairs that had led down to the subterranean Internet café, emerging from the gated doors as cool evening air enveloped what little warmth they had gathered from inside the building. Greeting them at the top of the stairs was Elijah Ricks, a.k.a. Boy #21, looking incredibly anticipatory as he balanced his aluminum baseball bat on his shoulder. Seeing that they were not carrying anything that they hadn't brought down, his expression slipped all the way to crestfallen.

"No luck, I assume?" he asked as he tried to conceal the note of disappointment.

"None, sorry, somebody smashed up everything and even Micah said there's nothing we can use down there, save for a coffeemaker which we elected not to take," Nicole replied as she looked uncomfortable.

Leaning over to Hank, she whispered, "You're right. It's unsettling."

"Told ya. I think it's the forehead that's accentuating them," Hank snickered under his breath.

"Freaky," she said with a smile.

Oblivious to their exchange, Elijah slammed the end of his baseball bat on the ground in anger. "Brilliant, isn't this just brilliant. Well, we're off to a great start, there's our chance at freedom right down there lying in pieces, I guess. So R.I.P., my buddies, guess this is it, huh?"

"There's still other places," Micah said tiredly.

"Well, gee, just want you to know that we're all real hopeful that a squadron of merciless soldiers will overlook a computer in a freaking game arcade," Elijah said acidly.

"Hey, I'm sorry this doesn't work out, but we all know what we're heading into when you first lent a hand, you know this is gonna be difficult and guess what, here it is, it's not all sunflowers and perfume! There's no walkthrough, no gamers' guide to tell us where to go!"

Taken aback (and with eyes wider than ever), Elijah promptly apologized. "I didn't mean to lose my temper. I know we're all doing the best we can, and things are out of our control, but… it just plain freaking sucks."

"If we had any liquor, I'd drink to that," Hank said with a laugh.

None of them had liquor, but they did have a surprise waiting for them. As the group wearily gathered their belongings and prepared to set off for the game arcade that Jolene had marked on their map (roughly half an hour away by Micah's estimation), they were rudely jolted back to full awareness by the sharp crack of a gunshot. Elijah, Hank, and Micah dropped instinctively to the ground. Nicole, slower to react, spun around slightly as she cried out and slammed into the ground, fortunately cushioned by Micah's body.

"You alright?" Micah asked frantically as he discarded the rusty shovel and instead ripped the Smith & Wesson from his belt.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Nicole muttered as she examined her shoulder. The shot had grazed her arm, tearing flesh and drawing a spray of blood. While it did hurt like a son of a bitch, it was not any more severe than a mere flesh wound.

Gritting her teeth, she bore the pain as she followed the three guys dodging behind the sign of the Internet café. Boasting in enormous font the store's trademark 'COFFEE DWELLERS,' the fluorescent lit sign reached up to waist level and was scarcely wide enough to offer four people extremely uncomfortable comfort. It probably would not have been able to impede a high velocity bullet, but with the four concealed from the open, they enjoyed some temporary strand of safety. Whoever the shooter was, they remained cautious and conservative, not firing another shot.

"Shoot to kill, shoot to kill," Hank said urgently to himself as he brandished the Beretta, while Elijah struggled to even dislodge the long shotgun from his back.

"Where?" Micah yelped, not daring to chance a peek. "I can't see anybody!"

"Me neither, shoot blind!" Hank replied, snaking his hand out and taking several wild shots without benefit of aim. He managed to destroy the windshield of a parked car as well as the doorknob of a fortune teller's abode, but seemingly nothing more.

"No, don't!" Nicole hissed as she pressed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "We gotta conserve the bullets."

"Well, I don't see you doing anything to save our skins," Hank said angrily as he clumsily reloaded. Nevertheless, he ceased fire and instead held the pistol close.

"Got it!" Elijah finally yelled as he twisted the shotgun into a position capable of firing.

"Fat lot of g-" Hank began to say angrily, cut off as new shots cascaded around them, striking holes in the concrete sidewalk. Nicole shrieked a little, instinctively bringing her legs closer around Hank's waist. The four cowered in differing states of terror as they waited for the gunfire to cease, and though for a while it seemed their attacker had a never-ending supply of bullets and an arm that reloaded at light speed, the barrage finally came to a rest after seconds.

Taking a slight risk, Nicole shot a hand beyond the frontier of minimal protection the sign offered, then immediately snatched it back as no shot echoed towards them. Their attacker must have been occupied, either reloading or otherwise, which meant-

"Now!" Elijah yelled as he and Hank shot up from their hiding place, while Micah leaned to the side and caught a broad view of the street. The road was lined with novelty stores with themes ranging from a showroom that encased a sleek and bodacious DeLorean, to an insanely sinister emporium that displayed seven thousand kinds of scented tissues. All sorts of other obstacles were arbitrarily placed in the way – parked cars, al fresco seating, trash cans, even the odd mailbox, as well as a stunned blonde girl caught mid-act of reloading as her fight or flight reflex shorted out.

They recognized Daphne Reagan, a.k.a. Girl #25, but more importantly, they recognized the Browning High Power in her hands as the gun that had been steadily fired at them in the past minutes. Reacting simultaneously, all three pointed their respective guns at the prone girl, while Nicole cautiously slunk back into the confines behind the sign, not having a firearm of her own and not wanting to risk being shot.

By some miracle, all three of them, though normally impulsive, managed to control their trigger fingers instead of turning Daphne into a girl-shaped slab of Swiss cheese.

"Don't move," Elijah said waveringly. "Don't talk, don't run, don't tremble, don't even fucking blink. Anything that may be construed as a threatening action, and I guarantee you we'll have you pumped full of lead casings."

Approaching the girl in a wide arc that led him behind her as the others kept their guns trained on her chest, Hank came up from behind her and mindfully jammed the muzzle of his Beretta up against the back of her head with one hand. With his free hand, he reached to Daphne's tightly clasped fingers and pried the unloaded gun from her hands. The loose bullets in her palm tinkered on the ground.

Recognizing in the back of his mind how eerily similar the situation was compared with his own encounter of Alexis not a day ago, Hank quickly jammed the gun in his belt and shoved Daphne to the ground. She fell daintily, scraping up her hands and elbows as she struggled to keep from completely falling. Considering that she had been looking to take their very lives moments ago, the boys showed her no mercy.

"You can get up now, bitch," Hank said with distaste. "As long as you don't try anything stupid."

With a resentful glare and blood adhering to her tight shirt, Daphne looked up at Micah and said spitefully, though the words were clearly for all three of their benefits, "Typical chauvinist pigs."

"I didn't catch that?" Hank asked sarcastically as he beckoned for Elijah and Micah to come closer.

"I said, you assholes are typical examples of misogynistic pigs, alright?" Daphne screeched. "What, just because I'm a woman, you think I deserve inferior treatment? I can be pushed to the ground and stripped of my properties? Do you think I'm some sort of Would you do the same to one of your own?"

"If they were trying to shoot our faces off," Elijah said darkly as he aimed the shotgun between her breasts, "hell yes. Now shut the fuck up and get to your feet."

"I will not be silenced, and I will not be ordered to obey," Daphne said defiantly.

"Too bad," Elijah said, unamused.

"You're not going to shoot her, are you?" Nicole asked as she finally poked her head up from behind the DWELLERS sign (now missing one of its Ls thanks to a wayward shot).

"No, I was thinking we argue about this and waste another couple hours, let some other vandal blow the computer arcade up, then I shoot her," Elijah said without an ounce of humor.

Not actually having seen the four clearly, Daphne was surprised to see another female on the scene. The emotion disappeared just as quickly as she protested, "Yet another example of your rampant sexism. If she's as much a member of your group, she should hold an equal portion of the decision. You don't get to override her just like that."

"Seriously, shut up," Hank said annoyed, reminding her position with a jab of his Beretta.

"I will not!" she yelled, but made no other arguments.

"Hey, Nicole," Hank yelled to the girl.

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to search her, or should I?" Hank said as he nudged the downed Daphne with one foot.

"I'll do it," Nicole said in reply, quickly going up to the girl.

As she brushed past Hank, she couldn't help but mutter, "Bitch is still a bitch, but she's right. You are a pig."

"What? I'm offended," Hank said, clearly feigning offense as he held a hand to his heart mockingly.

"You heard me right," Nicole said coldly as she ran her hands methodically down Daphne's sides, pulling out her wallet and discarding it. "If you think this whole thing is a chance for you to grope girls, you can fuck right off. I can't speak for Jolene or the others, but I personally can't coast out of here with an arrogant jerk who thinks it's his god-given right to unresistingly fuck me three ways if I bite it."

"Hey, you two, cool it," Micah spoke up, uncomfortable with where the conversation might be heading.

"Uh, news flash, you know I'm gay, right?" Hank said incredulously.

Nicole appeared mildly surprised, but processed the information quickly as she pulled Daphne's pack away. "Well, believe me, if we knew that, the girls would've had a _lot_ more leverage over you."

"Homophobic bullying is as large a pr-" Daphne piped up in complaint, her protests almost immediately silenced as Hank kicked her viciously in the shin.

"You're political, we get it. Now shut the fuck up," Hank said savagely as he turned to Nicole. "You done there yet?"

Quickly checking the insides of Daphne's shoes and finding nothing more lethal than lint, Nicole turned to her companions, saying, "She's clean. Nothing concealed as far as I can tell, just the gun. So what do we do now?"

"We let her go, I suppose," Elijah said. "Not with the gun, obviously."

"Whoa, we just let her go? That bitch is dangerous. She tried to kill us, if we let her go she's bound to kill somebody else with a gun and then she'll come back to bite us in the ass," Hank said agitated.

"You're not suggesting that we kill her?" Micah asked.

"I don't know, but we can't let her walk free," Hank admitted.

"If we keep her gun and let her run out there with no weapon and she ends up dying, it will be on our conscience," Micah said unsettlingly.

"Can we keep her around? I mean, she's already defenseless, and we have enough guns to keep her on a leash. It's better than letting her go and not knowing what she'll be up to, or… the alternative," Nicole said.

"We can't afford to let an outsider in though," Elijah said slowly, "especially not one who's shown she's not above playing the game."

"Please, just let me go," Daphne pleaded. "I don't know what you guys are up to, but I don't want to be a part of it."

"I just don't think we should bring along a bitch with a vendetta to murder us in our sleeps on a wild goose chase for a computer that, for all we know, might not even exist in one piece," Hank said, gesturing with his hands.

"You knew the deal from the start," Micah said as he gritted his teeth. "We're not killing her. It's unethical."

"Uh, you guys looking for a computer?" Daphne said confusedly. "I know where you can find one."

"You do?" Elijah asked harshly.

"Yeah, and I can take you to the general vicinity," Daphne said, "on one condition. You give my gun back, and let me go afterward."

"No way," Hank said instantaneously. "No way, no fucking way."

"You do that and I'll bring you to a computer," Daphne reminded.

"Sounds too good to be true," Micah said. "Why don't you tell us a bit more, and we'll decide whether or not to believe you."

"You know Caleb? He's got a computer and he tossed it. I'm fairly certain I know where it is," she said.

"Caleb's dead, the report said Phoebe killed him," Nicole interjected.

"Yeah, but he lost the computer early on, and I know there's only so many places it can be at," Daphne said as she bit her lower lip. _Is this going to work? Can this buy her some time to leverage for her weapon, her life, her freedom? God knows, but this gang doesn't look bad…_

"Please, I'll help you guys find what you're looking for, and I'll go on my merry way," she added.

The four considered the downed girl. Some doubted what she had said, taking her words to be a tale spun out of desperation; others were willing to at least verify her claims. None of them knew what was really the right thing to do. There were several options at hand here, and each looked as immoral as the next. As they struggled to maintain some sense of normality in the game, Elijah spoke up.

"Alright," he said, more to the others than to Daphne, "here's what we're gonna do…"

* * *

Paul Cavallo, a.k.a. Boy #14, whistled a merry tune as he carried two heavy fuel canisters under his arms. Standard jerry cans with a twenty liter capacity apiece, altogether close to forty liters of aviation fuel. Adding that to the six canisters he had already collected, he had managed to amass over eighty gallons of kerosene. A great deal of that he had managed to find after breaking open the padlock on the gate to an aircraft hangar, while the rest was from various other sources of dubious quality all over the island. All in all, not bad for a day's worth of work.

As what could only be termed as a self-declared anarchist, it wasn't alarming to think that Paul would end up heading down this path. Given his political inclinations (chaotic neutral), it would either be this or a last ditch rebellious suicide. The latter was quickly ruled out, given the fact that all of the people involved in the planning and execution of the Battle Royale were located safely far away from the shores. Instead, he had to make do with the remaining option. Though not an avid supporter of the Battle Royale series, he knew well enough that none had ever succeeded at this daunting task before, even those who were much better equipped than him intellectually and in terms of weapons. True, he was not the brightest of minds. Truer still, he only had a crowbar and the most basic of survival supplies to his current name. But still, Paul knew there was absolutely no way that he was going to fall victim to the game.

With a solid twenty hours' worth of effort, Paul had managed to put together all that he would need to set the plan into motion. If all went well, he would be submerged in the sea and far away from the island in less than an hour. From there, he could swim to the mainland (visible from the coast, thank heavens) and pursue further endeavors from there.

Finally reaching the small but well-provisioned airport on the island, Paul gingerly set down the two jerry cans. His muscles were mightily sore from all the sweat and exertion he had put in. But it would all be worth it.

Lifting the dog tags that dangled from his neck, he thought of the people who would want him to pull this off. As the faintest hint of a smile came across his lips, Paul couldn't help but raise a triumphant fist to the skies.


End file.
